


We Get By

by defcontwo, Dorasolo



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Civil War AU, Collect all five superhero lawyer cameos, Courtroom Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Ok maybe a small airport fight, POV Multiple, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2020-09-28 06:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorasolo/pseuds/Dorasolo
Summary: “You know, they say you never forget your first time running from the American government,” Wanda says, an impish grin crossing her face that’s just so unbearably young. Christ, she’s a kid. He can’t fucking believe they wanted to keep her locked up in a cage.“It’s been a few years for me,” Steve says, with a huff. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”Or: While Steve goes on the run with Bucky and Wanda in Europe, Sam asks for a new recruit and winds up with the matched set of Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne. Natasha has a plan and Clint would really just like to go back to his farm now, please.There’s strategy and feelings and a fight, but mostly strategy and feelings. It’s a Team Cap-centric Civil War AU, y’all.





	1. Chapter 1

Clint Barton has one job and one job only: get Scott Lang to the Avengers, whatever it takes, even if it means drugging him and dragging him to the Bronx, unconscious. Sam Wilson, the Falcon, thinks Lang won’t balk about fighting to keep from being on a government registry, and because Clint is an off the grid kinda guy too, he agrees to collect him. Clint’s not really sure why it needs to be a kidnapping — Lang has met Falcon so Falcon should just go to his front door and knock, really — but he’s following Falcon’s orders because Cap is busy hiding with Barnes and Wanda while this Accords shit is in the works.

He circles the duplex once during the day, notes that both sides of the place are incredibly quiet, and that Lang’s kid isn’t there this weekend. Clint stealthily climbs a tree outside the bedroom window to wait for the cover of dark. No cars come into the driveway except for Lang’s used beater and the nicer one Clint assumes belongs to the neighbor, and nobody leaves. Therefore, Lang must be alone.

The bedroom light goes on behind the curtains, and shortly after, turns back off. Clint makes a mental note to talk to Lang about better security after this is all over, if it’s ever all over, because the window is still open a crack in the mild San Francisco night, which is more than enough room for Clint to use to get inside the bedroom. Isn’t Scott Lang some kind of burglar himself? Shouldn’t he be more concerned about burglary than leaving a window open like this?

About an hour goes by without incident, so Clint uses the sturdier tree branches and a grappling hook to get himself positioned to shoot his needle tipped arrow at the man who’s hopefully, probably, most likely asleep in bed.

He flips on his night vision goggles, sees the still form in the bed, and shoots. Bullseye.

What he doesn’t plan for is the indignant “what the fuck?” that comes from a second lump right beside Lang. Shit, the girlfriend. Clint regrets not taking the time to learn anything about her besides that she exists. She doesn’t seem to stay over all that often because her place is nicer, so he pretty much ignored her dossier.

He strings another arrow, aiming for the woman, but is blind sighted by the window quickly opening all the way, and then shocked entirely when a high kick knocks him off of his grappling hook to the ground two stories below. It sucks.

Clint struggles to orient himself after the unexpected fall. He shakes out his limbs, fairly certain that nothing is broken except his pride. He raises up on one elbow, but the porch light goes on and blinds him, because today is really not his day. Clint shields his eyes with his other arm and squints as the silhouette of a small woman approaches him and he hears the unmistakable sound of the safety being disengaged from a handgun.

“Whoa whoa whoa, lady! I’m not here to hurt anybody!”

“Tell that to my boyfriend, who you just shot with an —” the woman yells, but then her voice trails off for a split second and she continues, much quieter, “wait a second, I know you, you’re —”

“An Avenger. I promise, if you put that gun down, I’ll tell you everything.”

Clint remains cool and calm, but he can’t see her face to figure out if she’s calming down too. Her arms don’t move. He watches warily as she keeps the gun up and pointed at him. She gestures with it, clearly indicating that he should talk. He sighs. 

“I’m Clint Barton. I’m under orders to bring Scott Lang by whatever means necessary to New York City to meet with Sam Wilson, the Falcon, about a sensitive issue.” 

“I’m supposed to believe that _Sam Wilson_ ordered you to shoot _Scott Lang_ with an arrow?” Skepticism drips from her voice. She’s not wrong, it does sound insane, and that annoys him more than anything else. 

“Who are you again?” Clint can’t believe that what seemed to be such a simple endeavor is going belly-up, and yeah, maybe he should have just knocked on the front door and interrupted their dinner instead. 

“Hope Van Dyne. Aren’t you special ops? Shouldn’t they have thought to teach you recon at SHIELD?” 

There is indeed a dossier on Hank Pym and Hope Van Dyne in his carryon suitcase that he completely ignored, figuring that it would be easy to just kidnap a guy who eats children’s cereal and worked for a defunct tech company as some sort of nerd engineer. Nat is never going to let him hear the end of this. 

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Hope orders, voice not wavering in the slightest. “You’re going to come back in the morning after Scott sleeps off whatever you dosed him with, and you’re going to explain what’s going on. But you’re not going to even think about coming back to take him tonight unless you want to test what kind of shot I am.”

Clint does not want to test what kind of shot she is, as it turns out, so he nods in acquiescence. “You have yourself a deal.” 

“Come to the front door next time,” Hope suggests, dead serious. 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, his body starting to recognize the pain from the fall now that his adrenaline is subsiding, “Yeah.”

***

Sam Wilson traded in his place near Capitol Hill for a two-bedroom in Highbridge around the time when the Avengers Compound started becoming a permanent fixture in his life but right this second, he might as well be two years and a whole other lifetime in the past. In his bathroom, taking in deep, calming breaths, as he tries to figure out what to do next when faced with what happens when an overly invasive government entity comes up against Captain America’s insanely stubborn blind spot for one James Buchanan Barnes. 

Sam braces both hands on either side of his sink, and hangs his head over the white porcelain, letting out a sigh. That’s not fair, exactly, because at the end of the day, this is all a lot bigger than Steve and Barnes and the long, grueling chase across Eastern Europe that they’ve been dipping into ever since the Triskelion fell. Barnes is a symptom of a much bigger problem, the problem being that as soon as mankind figured out it could turn a human into a superpowered weapon, there was always going to be someone who only saw the weapon to be fired and not the human underneath. 

And General Ross doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence in Sam -- he looks at Ross, at the medals on his chest, at the overwhelming white maleness that Ross wields like his very own superpower every time he enters a room, and all Sam can see is every single way that innocent people could get trampled in the undertow of all his bullshit. 

Sam doesn’t want to know what Ross would do with Barnes or Wanda or any of the other enhanced heroes that have popped up all over the place since the Battle of New York. Hell’s Kitchen alone is chock full of new supers crawling the streets; that Jones woman is in need of an AA meeting, not a government intervention, and Sam doesn’t even want to get started on the lawyer with the insane Catholic guilt complex. As for the brother up in Harlem who so far seems to be 100% bulletproof ...Christ, the thought of Ross finding out about that guy makes Sam’s skin crawl. He doesn’t plan on letting any of that happen. 

Sam shakes himself. He’s got shit to do and a lot to get ready for but in the mean time, he’s gonna shave, he’s gonna make some fucking breakfast, and then he’s gonna do a couple of loads of laundry so that if this whole thing ends with him taking his go-bag and running for the hills, at least he’ll have clean briefs in the process.

And if there’s one thing Sam’s learned over the past few years, it’s that you can’t take on fascism without breakfast. 

Sam lathers cream across his jawline and reaches for his razor, about to put blade to skin when a voice rings out behind him. 

“Be careful not to miss a spot,” Natasha says, voice low and teasing, as Sam yelps and curses, dropping his razor into the sink with a clatter. He absolutely did not hear her come in at all and he knows she didn’t knock. 

“What the fuck, Nat,” Sam says. “Do you want me to slice my nose off, or something?” 

“Of course not, it’s a very nice nose.” Natasha comes to lean on the shower door behind him, pale face visible in the mirror as he picks up his razor again. She’s got worry lines between her eyebrows, her mouth tight and drawn. “Just trying to keep you on your toes, Wilson.”

Sam huffs. “I let you into my home, I let you use my in-unit laundry, I make you a pot of that fancy hipster coffee that you like. Some thanks I get, Widow.” 

The corner of Nat’s lips turn up. “You’re the one who bought that fancy hipster coffee in the first place, Sam.” 

Sam doesn’t respond, just keeps on shaving, letting the razor glide smoothly across his skin, but rolls his eyes into the mirror, so she’s sure to see it. “You heard from Barton yet about Lang?”

Nat shrugs. “Not yet.” 

Sam pauses, just for a second. Barton headed out west over a day ago. It shouldn’t be taking this long. Sam’s pretty sure that he’s got Scott Lang at least a little bit figured out, he doesn’t seem at all like the kind of guy who would be down with a government registry for super-powered individuals. Not when he helped blow up a whole lab just to keep Pym Tech out of the hands of government contractors. “Should we be worried about that?” 

Nat grins, but it’s humorless. “So far, you and Steve are the only ones acting exactly the way I would’ve expected you to in this whole mess. For once, I don’t have as many answers tucked away as I’d like.” 

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Sam mutters, rinsing the shaving cream from his razor and shaking it off, as he places it at the edge of the sink. Sam reaches for a hand towel to wipe the remnants of the cream off his face, and then sets it aside. One thing’s for sure: they aren’t going to solve any problems standing here, waiting to find out what happens next. 

On to step two: breakfast. “So, Nat, how do you feel about bacon?” 

***

Clint thinks it’s past time to bite the bullet and call Sam, now that they’re physically at the airport and past security. He’s not thrilled about the inclusion of Hope Van Dyne, because from what he can tell from the dossier from which he’s been surreptitiously sneaking peeks, she’s a genius, a former Stark intern and was basically born into SHIELD. But Lang refused to go to New York without her, and Clint didn’t want to chance getting shot by arguing against it, so here they are. 

His phone rings and of course it’s Sam, because he’s leaving a full day later than expected and they haven’t even left the ground. Van Dyne had to find a place to leave her cat, and Lang had to tell his ex-wife and daughter that he was leaving before they’d even consent to taking the trip. Goddamn regular people.

“Sorry. We have a little problem,” Clint says through gritted teeth, quietly, trying not to alert Van Dyne or Lang to the phone call. It’s surprisingly easy because Van Dyne is still handling Lang, who had a rough wake up from the sedative in the arrow. Clint would feel bad, but it’s kind of amazing to see how many times one man can vomit. Lang is still pale and quiet, which Clint has learned means he’s nauseous, otherwise he’d be talking. 

Lang excuses himself again and hurries to the men’s room, and Van Dyne glares at Clint from beneath her perfectly precise bangs. “You’re a real asshole, Barton,” she spits, as she follows Lang to wait outside. 

Sam clears his throat. “Are you there? What’s going on? What's the problem?”

Clint sighs. “This mission is a lot more complicated than it’s probably worth,” he grumbles. 

“Did Lang shrink on you and escape?”

Clint gives a bark of laughter. “God no, that would be ridiculous.” 

Sam doesn’t laugh.

“Anyway, you’ll see the problem as soon as we get to you,” Clint answers, hanging up on a still not laughing Sam, while watching as Van Dyne buys two bottles of water from the newsstand before heading back to where they’ve been sitting. It’s probably not a good idea to ask why they didn’t get him a drink too, so he doesn’t say anything at all. She’s glaring at him again, anyway. 

Lang’s color looks a little more human now. “I feel better this time,” he offers, without Clint asking, once he sits back down on the pleather chair. Van Dyne and Lang stare at each other over their waters for a few seconds too long, which makes Clint incredibly uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared to when they're on the plane. 

Natasha got them three seats in two different rows so he lets the two of them sit together in front of him, expecting them to act like adults. Instead, they start a crossword, armrest up, Van Dyne tucked into his side. Lang repeatedly suggests the most ridiculous answers to every clue in an exaggerated stage whisper. Van Dyne doesn’t seem annoyed with him, and instead, laughs or groans softly at all of his bad jokes. Later, they nap, spooned up like a litter of kittens. 

Clint can’t figure them out at all, individually or as a couple. She’s maddeningly bossy, but clearly whip-smart and methodical, whereas he’s excessively goofy, and probably reckless. Inexplicably, Lang is Sam Wilson’s first choice for additional backup if Tony Stark goes off the rails about whatever it is Stark is currently heated about — Clint usually can’t keep track of what it is because Cap and Stark are usually pretty fired up about something all of the time — but this time Stark is wrong.

As for Lang and Van Dyne, Clint can handle a lot of things and a lot of people, but by the end of the flight watching them speak to each other in stares and in-jokes, he’s pretty damn sure they’re the worst.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything is moving a little too quickly for this impromptu cross country trip. Scott is starting to assume that the Avengers must only get together when they’re all half cocked on adrenaline to make awful plans, and Scott doesn’t traffic in such poorly constructed plans these days. If that’s not annoying enough, Clint Barton shot him with some kind of sedative that made him puke for hours. So, Scott is pretty unhappy with the current situation. First, Scott isn’t sure why Sam Wilson would have sent Barton to kidnap him when he didn’t need to be kidnapped at all. Second, he’s not convinced that Sam Wilson is involved in this at all, because that guy seems too responsible for this kind of bullshit.

Barton’s repeated entreaties to just come alone don’t help reassure Scott that this isn’t some weird ambush, so he sure as shit isn’t going anywhere without Hope. Barton has been watching them like a hawk, so it’s hard to get any good talk time before they get to the airport. So, Scott does what any reasonable person would do in the situation and pretends he has to throw up again, an action made entirely, annoyingly believable because of how the drugs in the arrow did make him puke all morning before the flight.

Hope is waiting for him by the bathroom when he finishes pretending. “I’m done puking, but I was hoping we could get out of earshot of our captor. I just have to say this: Barton thinks I’m a total dumbass.”

Hope nods. “He definitely thinks you’re a dumbass, but that’s a good thing. If he thinks you’re dumb, he won’t pay attention to us.”

Scott turns toward the newsstand and vaguely gestures at the drink case, indicating they should walk that way to look busy. “How dumb do I have to act before you’re so annoyed that you dump me?” 

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, you’re stuck with me at least through the end of this,” Hope teases him, her dimples showing. “The flight is long though, so do you want a crossword puzzle book?”

“Only if you secretly write me notes explaining where Sokovia is on a map so I don’t look dumb in front of the Falcon later,” he jokes, but then they look at each other with twin conspiratorial grins because actually, it’s a great idea to use the crossword book as a cover for conversation. 

“That’s brilliant,” Hope says sincerely, eyeing him speculatively.

“Yeah?” He preens a little; her compliments never fail to make his day. “You impressed? If so, how impressed? Like on a scale from one to ten.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him, exasperated but fond, “Maybe a six?”

He contemplates kissing her, but it’s really not the time. Also, he’s pretty sure that he can still taste his own vomit in the back of his mouth, which is the opposite of sexy. Yuck. “Let’s buy our stuff and go back before Barton comes looking for us,” he suggests, instead. 

Hope grabs two waters from the case and makes a show of paying for them and a box of mints at the front register, while Scott grabs a crossword book and a World News Report with a headline demanding to know who pays for superhero-related damage and goes to the back register. He shoves both into Hope’s overlarge business purse before they sit down with Barton. 

They spend the plane ride getting on the same page about the Accords because whatever this is, it has to be some sort of meeting about signing them. Hope and Scott both agree that somebody should be responsible for superhero caused destruction, kind of like how Hank cut a check to cover the Thomas the Tank Engine situation and fixed Paxton’s house. They also agree that if the price for government-backed financial aid like FEMA is a written registry of all enhanced humans, super tech, and humans with access to super tech, the price is too high. Especially considering how shitty FEMA is at dealing with regular disasters. They scribble notes to each other while Scott cracks dad jokes about the crossword clues to evade Barton’s eavesdropping. 

They land after what feels like forever, and Barton leads them to the taxi stand at JFK. “When Stark wasn’t pissed at us, he’d send a car. But he is pissed, so we’ll take a taxi if you can handle not being fancy for an afternoon.”

Scott can’t tell if Barton is joking, even though he kind of chuckled. He can’t tell if Barton has a sense of humor at all, really, and it’s certainly obvious that he’s not amused by the situation. 

“Up until about a year ago, I lived in prison, so most things seem pretty fancy to me,” Scott cracks, rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure we can handle a taxi ride.”

Scott meets Hope’s eyes in an incredulous stare, because there’s no way Barton read any of Scott’s dossier if he thinks Scott needs some sort of royal treatment. Hope gives Scott a little smile telling him that she gets it, both his frustration and his curiosity, and he likes that she can read him that well. He more than likes it, really. But he hasn’t told her that he loves her yet, so he won’t now in the back of a taxi. He should tell her soon, definitely before she has to save his ass again so she’ll know it has nothing to do with gratitude. 

They ride the rest of the way to Highbridge in the taxi in relative silence, punctuated by Scott drumming Seven Nation Army on his thighs because he’s nervous. When they reach Sam’s apartment building, Barton buzzes the doorbell. Once the front door opens, Scott and Hope loudly debate whether climbing the four flights count as part of their daily exercise routine. Barton groans and looks at the ceiling as if it’s going to relieve him from his suffering. Hope barely stifles her look of triumph about Barton’s total and utter annoyance before Sam opens the door, his face peeking out with both eyebrows raised, to find out who’s causing all that racket.

“Finally,” Sam says, throwing the door open. “Clint, what did you do, walk here?” Sam leans against the door jamb, sharp gaze clearly taking in the scene before him: Scott, a little grey around the edges, probably, with Clint, looking incredibly, absurdly annoyed, and on top of all that, Hope Van Dyne, with her arms folded across her chest, staring Sam down like she’s trying to figure out whether or not she should start throwing punches. Naturally, this seems to make Sam like her instantly. 

Barton pushes past both Hope and Scott into the apartment, rolling his eyes wearily. He sounds disgruntled to Scott, which is really obnoxious because the person most inconvenienced by this trip so far is Scott, the one shot by the arrow.

“Hey Sam, hey Nat. This is the little problem I was talking about on the phone. I got Lang, but he refused to come without _Hope Van Dyne_,” Barton explains, rolling his eyes, and Scott kind of wants to punch him. 

“I want to know who authorized this maniac to _shoot me_. That’s definitely a better place to start talking, if we’re being honest, and I like to be honest,” Scott declares, mirroring Hope’s crossed armed battle stance. 

Though she had been joking around while climbing the entire four flights of stairs, Scott watches as Hope snaps immediately back into business mode at Clint’s insults. “I’d also like to know who’s responsible for the kidnapping attempt.” 

Sam blinks once, twice, and then unfolds his arms. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“He,” Scott says slowly, pointing at Clint, “climbed the tree outside my window and _shot me_ with an arrow full of poison.” 

“It wasn’t poison, it was —” Clint starts.

Hope interrupts Clint like he isn’t even there. “He didn’t expect me to be there,” she explains, smugly. “But I was, and I caught him. He said he did it on _your_ orders.” 

Hope looks at Sam, expectantly, after throwing yet another dirty look at Clint. 

Sam turns towards Clint and gives him what can only be described as a dead-eyed look. “Dude. When you asked how you should get this done and I said, I don’t know, kidnap him, how did you _not_ get that was a joke?” 

Clint gapes. “It’s literally what you said to do!” 

Sam inhales, sharply, and then mutters something under his breath like, _white boys, I swear to fucking god_. “Look, between Nat and Mister Great Depression, I get that maybe my sense of humor is a little darker than it used to be, but I assumed, more fool me, that you would just, I don’t know, instinctively get that that’s not how we fucking do things!” Sam gestures widely in Scott’s direction with one hand. “We’re team freedom of choice, that’s the whole point! That everyone gets autonomy over their fine ass superhero bodies!” 

Sam is, at this point, breathing a little heavily, and looking like he kind of wants to jump out the window of his own apartment. Scott is inexplicably and inordinately pleased to know that the guy isn’t always cool as a cucumber, and a little bit flattered if Sam Wilson thinks his ass is fine. 

Natasha Romanoff, who comes out of nowhere, somehow, lays a hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam, I’ll take it from here.” She steps up next to Sam, all cool eyes and singularly terrifying smirks, but thankfully, her attention is focused squarely on Clint Barton. “Clint. Did a cow on your farm finally kick you in the skull?” 

“Sam said he wanted Lang by any means necessary,” Clint argues defensively, “and honestly, you know if you wanted some kind of negotiation you wouldn’t have sent me, that’s not even close to my specialty. So no, none of it sounded like a joke!”

“All you had to do was knock on the door,” Scott pipes up from where he’s been swiveling his head like he’s at a tennis match as the conversation goes back and forth. “Hope and I probably would have even fed you dinner, if you were nice about it. I made fettuccine, way too much of it, which you probably know because I threw it up. Eight times.”

Natasha scrunches up her nose. “I told you the nausea arrow was a bad idea.” 

“It was just Clonazepam to knock him out,” Clint starts again, spreading his arms in a ‘why me’ gesture. “How was I supposed to know he’s got an allergy, for shit’s sake!”

“Maybe by reading his dossier,” Hope suggests sarcastically, her voice ice cold, and not getting any warmer even though she’s getting angrier. “It’s clear you didn’t prepare at all.”

Scott uncrosses his arms to put one hand on Hope’s shoulder, and she relaxes imperceptibly as he squeezes. “Let’s assume that it _was_ just a really poorly executed plan. I mean, the worst attempt at a plan, maybe ever. How were you even going to get me to the airport and on a commercial flight if I was passed out? Anyway, really, enough of Barton’s terrible tactical skills. Can we please skip to the part where you tell us what’s going on? I’m hungry.” 

Sam and Natasha exchange a look — the corner of Sam’s lips twist like he wants to say something, but instead, he just shakes his head and then turns on his heel and walks further into the apartment. “Come on, Lang, I have some bacon leftover from breakfast, I’ll make you a BLT and I promise not to poison you.” 

Scott raises an eyebrow at Hope. “Hungry?” 

“I guess I could eat,” Hope agrees, reluctantly, her desire to keep yelling at Barton written all over her face, but she follows anyway. 

The kitchen is also part of the living room, in the way that most New York apartments are set up, with a large, L-shaped couch tucked in one corner, and a small kitchen island that Hope and Scott immediately cluster around as Sam goes rummaging through his fridge. There’s a photo booth strip stuck to the fridge with a magnet, the room’s only real piece of decoration, featuring a series of photos of Sam, Captain America, and Natasha Romanoff, all making equally absurd faces at the camera. Which, wow. That’s not something that Scott thought he would ever see. 

For all that this is supposed to be Sam’s place, it doesn’t actually seem like he’s spent a lot of time here. 

“So, do either of you know what all this is about?” Sam tosses over his shoulder, as he draws ingredients out of the fridge. “Or did y’all not even get that far?” 

“We’ve been at somewhat of a standstill after the kidnapping attempt,” Hope admits, a bit sheepishly, but she can’t help the ghost of a smile that appears at the memory.

“What she means is that she held him at gunpoint and now they can’t play nice,” Scott quips, grinning rather besottedly at Hope. 

He blinks himself out of his Hope related trance and focuses on Sam. “We figured that it has to be about the Accords, so we came up with talking points on the plane.” 

Clint interrupts Natasha’s lecture, which she had quietly been conducting from the corner for the past three minutes, on when it’s okay to kidnap somebody versus when to just nicely ask them to join in on a mission. “You came up with _what_ on the plane? How? You did crossword puzzles for _hours_!”

Hope crosses back over to the living room to get her briefcase. She retrieves the crossword puzzle book and opens it, showing everybody that no puzzles are actually done and instead there’s just wall to wall writing about the Accords. 

“No, you _thought_ we were doing crossword puzzles for hours,” Hope answers, the same ghost of grin across her face like she’s delivering a punchline to an elaborate joke. Scott side eyes her, raises an eyebrow, and they both grin from ear to ear. Scott starts laughing and tries to cover it by clearing his throat, but he gives up trying to hide it when Sam laughs with them, too.

“Wow, Clint. Just — wow,” Sam deadpans, sounding almost impressed. 

“I do my best when people underestimate me,” Scott jokes, even though he’s not really joking. 

“Clearly,” Sam says, dryly, no doubt remembering Avengers headquarters.

Hope acknowledges the truth in both statements when she ducks her head away from them and her dimples pop. Scott narrows his eyes at her, because he knows she’s both amused and a little proud. Normally, he’d tease her about getting too soft with him. Instead, he makes himself look away because there’s no way she’ll let him kiss her in mixed company so he won’t even try. 

“I do have one more question,” Scott says, “I’m unclear why you wanted me here in New York when we could have talked about this on the phone.” 

Sam is quiet for a moment as he pushes a tomato and a knife in the direction of Scott, so Scott works on autopilot, slicing the tomatoes into thin, sandwich-friendly slices, and setting them in front of Sam on the kitchen counter. “Steve thinks all this is going to end in a fight. I don’t think he’s wrong, exactly, but I don’t think it has to come to that,” Sam says, letting out a sigh. “Stark is being stubborn but maybe if he talks with someone that _doesn’t_ remind him of his deep-seated daddy issues, we might actually get somewhere.” 

Hope cocks her head to the side, and stills for a moment, looking like she’s debating with herself. “I’d like to talk to him, even though I probably remind him of his father tangentially too. We knew each other growing up. I interned at Stark for a summer in grad school but chose Pym after I finished my PhD. Maybe he’d listen if I made an appointment.” 

Natasha appears on Hope’s right side, her slight stature making her seem both impossibly small and human for the reputation that she has, but then something shifts. A flicker of her eyes, a change in her stance, and she becomes the Black Widow again. “Rumor has it that he didn’t even listen to Pepper on this,” she says, arching an eyebrow, turning that assessing gaze in Hope’s direction. “What makes you think you’ll be any different?” 

“Nothing,” Hope says, with a small shrug, and she meets Natasha’s eyes with every inch of the resolve that Scott’s always found endlessly compelling. “But I won’t be satisfied until I know I’ve tried.”

Natasha pauses for a beat and then nods approvingly, causing Scott to fight back another besotted, proud grin. “Alright. Now we have a plan.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, on the run. An interlude with Steve, Wanda, and Bucky.

Steve takes Wanda across the border into Canada, where they pull over to a roadside motel to dye her distinctive red hair a deep, back of the box black and _his_ distinctive blond hair a light, ashy brown. 

Twenty miles later, they stop at a bar for a beer and a soda that they share with a big man named Ivan who likes to tell stories about how the vegetables in his garden are growing. As they’re paying, Ivan slides them a thick brown envelope, with two passports inside: one, for a Arthur Déjacque because Natasha’s just full of jokes, apparently, and another for an Anne-Marie Eisenhardt, because Wanda doesn’t get made fun of half as much as Steve does. 

Two hours later, they’re on a flight from Montreal to Marseilles, dressed in nondescript, baggy clothing, ball caps pulled down low. 

Right before take off, Steve texts a message from one burner phone to another that just says “meet me where Dum Dum got shot in the ass and wouldn’t shut up about it.” 

They’ve only been using those burners for about a month, almost never to text and only ever to call, and even then, for no longer than ten minutes at a time. Ten minutes that pass too quickly in stuttered, aborted conversation and swallowed-back apologies that turn to ash in the back of Steve’s mouth. 

He doesn’t expect to get a response. Doesn’t expect to hear from Bucky again — at least not through that phone, anyways, because he knows that this is too much, all at once. Panic and hope are at war in Steve’s mind and they agree on one thing and one thing only: that the Accords are dangerous, that they’ll place Bucky’s delicate reclamation of his personhood at risk. 

So, he takes the shot and hopes for the best. Wanda places a hand on his elbow, as Steve makes to speed his way out of the airport at Marseilles, duffle slung over one shoulder, both eyes ready to scan the horizon for the one face that he most wants to see right now. 

“Careful,” Wanda whispers. “Walk, don’t run, remember?” 

Steve stops still, just short of the automatic doors that will lead to the arrivals area. There’s a steady flow of people, in and out, the French language weaving in and around them, with smatterings of English and Arabic thrown in. 

Marseilles is a port town, Steve remembers. He hasn’t been here since 1944 and he can’t even begin to imagine how time might’ve changed it but he remembered how with the scent of salt air blowing in, it felt a little like home. 

Steve turns to Wanda, tossing her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I’m not very good at this part.” 

“You know, they say you never forget your first time running from the American government,” Wanda says, an impish grin crossing her face that’s just so unbearably young. Christ, she’s a kid. He can’t fucking believe they wanted to keep her locked up in a cage. 

“It’s been a few years for me,” Steve says, with a huff. “Guess I’m a little rusty.” 

Wanda tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and tugs him along, through the doors. 

When they get outside, there’s taxis lining up for new arrivals and families clamoring to pick up moms and kids and friends, and not a familiar face in sight. Steve smothers a sigh and goes to turn towards the taxi line. 

“Unbelievable,” a familiar voice rings out, “a beak that large and it keeps you from seeing what’s right in front of your face.” 

Steve’s head whips around, towards Bucky’s voice, and finds him loitering in a silver VW Golf that looks like tens of other VW Golfs littered throughout the arrivals section, sitting in the driver’s seat but craning his head to look through the passenger side window. He looks….like he hasn’t slept in a week, probably, with purple marks bruised into the skin under his eyes, but his hair is at ear-length and mostly covered by a wool beanie, and his gaze looks sharper, more aware, than Steve’s worst fears were expecting. 

“So, you need a ride, sweetheart, or what?” Bucky says. His voice still cracks a little, from disuse, and the charm feels put-upon, like he’s trying on what it’s like to see if it still suits. 

And Steve can’t help but stand there, drinking in the sight of him, forgetting everything else that’s going on around them. 

Bucky bangs a hand on the dash, re-focusing Steve’s attention. “Pal, the longer you stand there collecting flies, the more attention we’re gonna get.” 

Steve shakes himself. “Right. Right. Come on, Wa - Anne-Marie, looks like we’ve got a ride.” 

“You’re right,” Wanda says serenely, settling herself into the backseat of Bucky’s car, duffle in her lap. “You are terrible at undercover work, _Arthur_.” 

Bucky barks out a short, sharp laugh, and then they’re off.

***

The safe house that Sharon sent them to is a top floor apartment in a squat, brightly colored three story building a short walk from the famous synagogue. They spend an hour casing the place out, on Bucky’s insistence, until he’s satisfied that the other residents are the type of elderly couples that spend most of their time going to and from the market, and minding their own business. 

“It’ll do,” Bucky says, after he’s inspected every exit and point of egress in the place, but the tense set to his shoulders doesn’t ease off at all. The show of normalcy at the airport was just that — a show, and it makes Steve’s heart ache to see it. 

Wanda frowns softly in Steve’s direction, but doesn’t say anything. 

Bucky turns to face them, crossing both arms over his chest. Both hands, metal and flesh, are covered in gloves. “So, this about the Accords?” 

Steve braces both hands on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. “Yeah. It’s….I don’t trust the implications of it and I sure as hell don’t trust General Ross. After the shit Bruce Banner told me about him...I don’t get it, how can anyone think this is a good idea.” 

Bucky frowns. “You think he’s HYDRA?” 

Steve hears the sound of a sharp intake of breath coming behind him, from Wanda. 

Steve shakes his head. “HYDRA, no. Ross is…..he’s a patriot, the kind of patriot who thinks America should hoard all the power in the world and he should be the one with the trigger and he doesn’t seem to care all that much how he gets it. The Accords are coming from the UN but Ross is definitely pulling the strings.” 

Wanda scoffs, as she moves forward to drop into a seat at the table. “I don’t understand what a peacekeeping organization is supposed to do about any of this.” 

“Yeah, they don’t have a lot of teeth on their own,” Steve says, “so — “ 

“Ross is the teeth,” Bucky says, completing Steve’s sentence for him. “Whether anyone wants to admit it or not.” 

“Exactly,” Steve says, blowing out a breath. He’s absurdly, helplessly glad that Bucky just gets it, the same way Sam did. “I just. I didn’t want anyone to take….you away from you, again.” 

“Pal, I’m not even sure who I am, most days,” Bucky says, lips twisting into a parody of a smirk. “But ...I am getting there. So, uh. Thanks.” 

“Of course,” Steve says, searching for something else to say but everything else that comes to him feels inadequate so he peters off into an awkward silence. 

Wanda cups her chin into one hand, looking between them with a soft, knowing look that Steve doesn’t want to think too hard about. “Well, as fun as this is, I checked the fridge on my way in and there’s nothing in it but an old package of bacon, which I wouldn’t eat even if it wasn’t a year out of date, so...perhaps we should go down to the market.” 

“Wanda, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…” Steve starts. 

Wanda holds up a hand, stopping him. “What’s more suspicious: three people walk into an apartment and never come out again, or three people go about their lives with small, necessary errands so they don’t look out of place?” 

“Walk, don’t run, huh?” Steve says, wryly. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers, turning to face Wanda. “You speak French?”

“Not at all,” Wanda says. “You’ll be my interpreter for the fruit stand, then. Steve, any requests?” 

“He can’t even cook, you don’t have to listen to him,” Bucky says, waving his hand dismissively in Steve’s direction. If Steve didn’t know any better, he would’ve missed the way Bucky’s eyes widened a split second later, in surprise, like he didn’t even know what he was going to say until he was saying it. 

Just as quickly though, Bucky settles back into a blank sharpness, as he shucks his coat back on and pulls the beanie back over his hair. 

Steve wants to protest — not at the slight against his cooking because it’s true, he almost burned their apartment down in 1939 while trying to scramble eggs, he knows his limits, but at the thought of Bucky slipping out of his sight, and Wanda along with him. 

But it’s best if they don’t travel all together as a group and anyways, Wanda and Bucky don’t know each other at all, he can’t blame them for wanting to feel each other out. Whatever it takes to make them feel safe, Steve’ll find a way to make it work. 

“I’ll hold down the fort here, check in with Sharon,” Steve says. “You two go ahead, get whatever.” 

“Yes, Ma,” Wanda cracks, making a face in Steve’s direction, and then they’re off, the door shutting behind them with a soft click. 

***

Steve may not be able to cook worth a damn but cleaning, that he can do, so he plugs in the phone that Sharon gave him to let it charge, and takes to removing the thin layer of dust that’s settled all over the place. It’s easy work, something he watched his Ma do a million times over to get rid of all the dust in the air that might kick off his asthma, and the motion of it lets his mind turn off, for once, lets the constant churning focus down into this one small movement, the feel of wet dishcloth against wood. 

He’s so lost in it, that he almost doesn’t hear the phone start to buzz. 

But his super soldier senses have to be good for something, so Steve balls the dishcloth up and sets it aside, reaching for the phone off the counter with his other hand. 

He unflips the burner and presses accept, pressing the speaker to his ear. “Took you long enough, Sharon, you take a nap or something?” 

There other side is silent for a minute and then he just hears a soft, slow exhale, like it’s been pushed out of her. “Steve,” Sharon says, her voice shaking at the end of it, so the v and e barely come through. Steve stands up straight, at attention, and tries to ignore the way the back of his throat has suddenly gone dry. “Steve, it’s Peggy.” 

“What is it?” Steve asks, even though he knows already, Sharon’s tell-tale tremor gave it all away. He has to hear her say it, though, even if it’s cruel of him to make her — it won’t be real until Sharon places the words into the distance between them, until they reach his ears from wherever she is now. 

London, probably. She’s probably in London. 

“Steve, she’s gone. An hour ago, in her sleep. I….the funeral is in two days. I — I know you shouldn’t come,” Sharon says, clearing her throat, making a game effort to slip into her calm, steady mission voice. “You’re in hiding and — “ 

“I’ll be there,” Steve says swiftly. “Just tell me when and I’ll be there.” 

“Two days,” Sharon repeats and then hangs up. 

Steve throws the burner phone onto the counter, doesn’t wait to see if it breaks in the process before lowering his head onto his forearms, and taking slow, deep breaths as wetness starts to quietly slip its way down his cheeks. 

Sometimes he thinks, _I waited too long,_ but other times, on good days, well - he gets it, a little better, can look at the beautiful, messy reality of it all and remind himself that they were in the middle of a war. He pinned so many of his hopes to Peggy’s sharp grin, to the soft, lingering touch of her hand on the heavy wool of his uniform when she would lean over to straighten his collar or brush a likely imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder, but there was never going to be a right moment for what came next. Not when Steve was always going to put that plane into the water. 

On the good days, he can only be grateful that she was in his life, that he got to see her again, worn and grey and surrounded by photos of her family, her husband and her children and Angie, her partner in later years. 

But this is not a good day and not a single fucking thing makes this hurt any less. 

Steve doesn’t know how long he stands there, head bowed over the kitchen counter, before Bucky and Wanda come back. All he knows is that one minute, all he could hear was a low, dull buzzing, the white noise of his own misery turning itself over and over again, and the next minute, Wanda comes rushing through the front door, and there’s a crash and a thud, the sound of groceries getting spilled onto the floor. 

“Steve, what’s wrong, I could feel -- “

Steve pulls himself together and up, turning to face the doorway, where Wanda stands frozen in place with both hands up, like she’s about to draw on her power. Bucky stands just to the left of her, knife at the ready and gaze scanning the room quickly, but he drops his knife to his side once his gaze catches onto Steve. 

“Steve…” Bucky says, stepping forward. “What happened?” 

“I…” Steve says, his voice cracking. “Peggy, she...she’s dead, Buck. She’s gone.” 

Steve’s not sure what he expected. Bucky’s relationship with Peggy was complicated — made up of equal parts affection and resentment and respect. The two of them had an understanding that Steve wasn’t privy to, would come together for early morning target practice and quiet, conspiratorial murmurings that would break off whenever anyone else got close. It would be too much to hope for, that Bucky remembers any of that. 

But then Bucky’s tossing his knife to the kitchen counter with a clatter and closing the distance between them, easing his way into Steve’s space and wrapping him up in a light, tentative hug. He leaves just enough distance that Steve could step back if he wanted to but he doesn’t want to, of course. Instead he collapses forward, burying his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. 

The deja vu hits him like a wave; he’s lived through this same moment before, in a bombed out bar in war-torn London. Only then it was Peggy in his arms and Bucky who was dead, and not for the first time, Steve wonders if this is his penance to serve for having a greedy heart. For loving them both too much and not being able to stop, so now he’s stuck in this awful in-between, in a loop of loss that he can’t seem to break out of. 

“Stop it,” Bucky huffs, nudging at Steve. “I can practically hear your dumb brain finding a way to beat yourself up over something that couldn't be more out of your control.”

A light hand presses into the center of Steve’s shoulder blades and he’s embarrassed, a little, that he forgot Wanda was still in the room with them, that she saw him break down so completely.

“Catholics,” Wanda says wryly, but her palm presses more firmly into his back in support. 

“Honestly,” Bucky scoffs in return, and it’s enough to draw wet laughter out of Steve. 

Peggy’s voice rings out in his mind, _you’re always so dramatic_, and he knows that if she were here, if she could see him, that’s exactly what she’d be saying. 

Steve raises his head, lifting up a hand to wipe idly at the corners of both eyes, but keeping the other firmly anchored at Bucky’s waist, a solid reminder of what’s right in front of him. “Okay, you’re right.” 

Bucky makes a soft humming sound. “There gonna be a funeral?” 

“In London, in two days,” Steve says. “I have to go. I know it’s not great timing but — “ 

Bucky exchanges a look with Wanda over Steve’s shoulder, and then nods, like they’ve come to some sort of agreement. The more things change. 

“Go to London, pal. We’ll figure it out.” 

***

Thirty hours later, there’s a sharp rap on the front door, followed by three more in rapid succession, and when Steve swings it open, Maria Hill is on the other side. 

“Huh,” Steve says. “Isn’t this a conflict of interest with your new employer?” 

Maria rolls her eyes and side steps him on her way into the apartment, dropping her duffle to the ground with a soft thunk. “You know, it’s funny, I don’t take company loyalty as seriously as I used to.” 

Steve huffs. “Can’t imagine why.” 

Maria grins, sharply, and digs a gun out of her duffle, clipping it to her holster. 

“Do I want to know how you got all that through customs?” Wanda asks, one eyebrow raised as she takes in the tac-gear that Maria is slowly unpacking from her bag. Still, she sits as calmly as she can, both hands wrapped around her mug of tea as she sits in her pajamas at the kitchen table. 

Well. With powers like hers, there’s not a lot that Wanda can’t stop, if push comes to shove. 

“Told them I was a US Marshall,” Maria says, “and wouldn’t you know, Sharon got me all the paperwork to prove it.” 

Wanda shrugs a shoulder, turning back to her tea and an English language newspaper that she dug up from somewhere. 

Suddenly, Maria’s movements still and she straightens up, quickly, one hand falling to the gun at her hip. 

Bucky is standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, taking her in just as quickly as his gaze drifts over every window in the place. Steve told him there was going to be someone coming but maybe there’s just no amount of information that helps, not after what he’s been through, and Steve has to stop himself from rubbing idly at his chest, at an invisible ache. 

“You look familiar,” Bucky says. “Were you, uh, in DC?” 

“Fighting the Nazis at the Triskelion?” Maria says. “Yeah, that was me.” 

Wanda clears her throat meaningfully but doesn’t look up from the newspaper. “No fighting. It’s Saturday.” 

Bucky’s stance softens as he throws an amused look in Wanda’s direction. “Is she going out of her way to sound just like my Ma?” 

“Men,” Maria mutters, but her stance softens too, her hand falling away from the gun at her hip. “Every woman reminds them of their mother somehow.” 

“See,” Steve says, as he picks up his own bag, throwing the strap across his shoulder. “You’re all gonna get along just fine.” 

“We will,” Maria says. “I’ll keep an eye on things over here. Try not to start an international incident this time, huh, Rogers?” 

“I will if you will,” Steve says, smothering a small grin, his first in days, at the way Bucky rolls his eyes at him pointedly. 

Steve opens the front door, takes in the whole room, takes in the fact that these days, he’s got friends on this side of the century who will drop everything to help him out on a day’s notice, and for the first time in a long while, thinks maybe this will all shake out okay. 

“See you in a few days,” Steve says, and then he’s out the door and on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is wildly AU re: the movie but it absolutely addresses two big pet peeves that I've long had: one, that Sharon kept that Peggy was her aunt a secret (like, why tho????) and two, that we're never really given the space & time to see Bucky regaining his agency.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does Hope and Natasha’s meeting with Stark go?

Scott and Hope leave Sam’s apartment, hand in hand, a mildly public display of affection, and nobody seems to mind. They have been doing whatever it is that they’ve been doing with their relationship for the better part of a year, without defined labels, and without public fanfare. Sometimes Scott forgets that she’s still the Chair of Pym Tech and that she’s rich as all hell because their relationship is made up of mostly quiet moments together in private; training in Hank’s basement, working on their tech suits, cooking dinner, sleeping at his townhouse or at her apartment. Scott hasn’t been around the business side of Hope, the public version of her, since Pym Tech San Francisco imploded.

Before this Avengers situation, Hope had wanted to go to New York City to stop by the Pym Tech satellite lab and check on the projects that were not halted by the implosion. Cross had diverted so much of Pym’s funds into Project Yellowjacket, but there are a few of Hope’s pet projects studying the Particle’s potential impact on the environment that survived. Hope is a causehead about environmental policy and Scott likes this side of her, because it’s sincere and noble and she’s free of all of the expectations placed on her shoulders. She and Scott had been idly planning a trip out east for her to show him the lab, but Barton sped up the timetable for a New York trip when he shot Scott with his arrow.

Pym Tech puts traveling employees at the W Hotel in Times Square, so Hope reserves the company’s regular suite for them while they’re working on the next steps with the rest of the Avengers. After Hope and Natasha have finished their plotting about the meeting with Tony Stark, and Scott has helped relieve Sam of most of his leftover bacon, they leave to crash at the hotel. 

Scott does not have an ordinary life anymore, not since the VistaCorp job that put him on Hank Pym’s radar. Even so, he sees himself as a fairly regular guy. He’s ill prepared for a stay in this kind of hotel. It’s leaps and bounds more posh than the last time he was in New York City, back in grad school, sleeping on a friend’s friend’s couch after getting too drunk in the Lower East Side.

Hope, even in her jeans and sleeveless blouse, has this aura of professionalism and competence that Scott will never have even though he was chief engineer for VistaCorp once upon a time. Now they’re walking into this expensive hotel that he can’t pay for even if they split it down the middle. He feels so out of place in this world, and he struggles not to let his feelings show as they check in and get into the elevator to the second highest floor. He loses the struggle.

“You’re a little too quiet, Scott. Are you still feeling sick?” Hope’s question interrupts Scott from his shame spiral and he looks over at her. She feels his forehead, searching for a fever. He tries to smile, and shakes his head no.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to dodge her skeptical look and raised eyebrows. Yikes, she’s still pretty even when she’s judging him.

“Just a little overwhelmed,” he admits, after feeling her stare. “I’m an ex-con and here I am, talking to real superheroes and staying with an executive at a hotel that costs more than my monthly child support payments per night.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you’re having a pity party,” Hope concludes, matter of factly, assessing him with a shrewd eye. He normally likes how she can see right through him, but right now he just feels exposed.

“No, I mean, yes, I’m feeling out of place, and I feel like a dumbass because Barton shot me. What if you weren’t there to save me? I’m sure I’d be doing something totally dumb,” he tries to explain, as they walk down the hall to her usual suite. Hope opens the door, and the room is expectedly huge and color coordinated. It’s sparsely decorated, like most hotel rooms, but Scott would bet that the furniture is made of real wood and not wood pulp like his IKEA crap, and there’s a jacuzzi tub in the bathroom that he’s sure costs more than his last paycheck. 

“What are we even doing here, Hope?” His question comes out unbidden, cranky and unexpected, and he regrets asking it the moment it leaves his mouth.

“We’re staying in the company’s regular business suite,” Hope answers slowly, arching a perfect eyebrow, as she puts her bag down on the king sized bed. “But I’m guessing that you mean what are we doing, as in our relationship?”

“I’m a giant idiot,” Scott groans, cringing and immediately apologetic, “I don’t need a definition for us. We’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

Hope considers him for a second, weighing her words, because he’s telegraphing that he needs reassurance. She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. “Scott. I like you enough to hold an Avenger at gunpoint for hurting you, _and _I cleaned up your vomit. I’d say we’re doing pretty well.”

_‘Doing pretty well’ _is actually an understatement. Without her to balance him, Scott knows he’d probably agree to play a part in whatever half cocked plan the Avengers concoct to prevent people from being on a government registry because it’s the right thing to do. His heart is in the right place, but he’s generally been a “do first, think later” type of guy. Hope makes him want to stop and consider both his actions _and_ the consequences, with the same meticulous eye for detail he uses to plan a heist. The magnitude of how he feels about her is hitting him just about as hard as Barton’s drugged arrow. He has no idea why she puts up with his shit, but he’s pretty damn grateful she does. 

Scott puts his travel bag next to hers on the bed and nudges her side. “I’m sorry I’m so cranky. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since Cassie, and I shouldn’t be questioning you, or us, just because you can afford a nice hotel room. Can you forgive me?” 

“Maybe,” Hope agrees, with a teasing, mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’ll consider forgiving you, but you have to rehearse all of the talking points for tomorrow’s meeting with me again, right now.” 

Scott groans again, half theatrical and half for real. “I would have done that anyway. Can we do that in the giant bathtub, at least?” 

Hope answers him by starting to unbutton her blouse. “Last one there has to pretend to be Happy Hogan,” she jokes, pushing past him to get a head start. Scott shudders at the idea of pretending to be Happy Hogan, and follows her to the bathroom, hot on her heels. 

** 

Hope dresses carefully for her meeting at Stark Tower, a tailored black pantsuit with slim legs and Jimmy Choo pumps, and statement earrings that were a total splurge, but she believes tell the world she’s both refined and completely in charge. Scott wolf whistles her from the bed, where he’s half awake and shirtless. His hair is standing up in all directions, and he’s so adorably rumpled that Hope debates wasting another couple of minutes in the room with him. 

“You have to go,” Scott groans, reading her thoughts in the uncanny way that he does, flopping back into the pillows dramatically and looking at the ceiling. “I hate myself for even thinking it, but you do. You have a plan and everything so you can’t waste time with me.” 

Hope smirks at him and crosses the room anyway. She plants what she considers a fairly gratuitous kiss on him, and reluctantly pulls away, with a small amount of pride at being the cause of his dazed expression. She applies her red lipstick in the mirror and blows him a kiss. “Behave yourself while I’m gone,” she says, a little bit coyly, to another barely muffled groan into the pillow. 

She smiles as she walks the few blocks to Stark Tower, which is is a modern architecture dream come true, all clean lines and simple elegance. Hope checks in with the receptionist, and is surprised when she is almost immediately ushered upstairs in a keyed elevator to the penthouse. 

Once she’s in the penthouse, Pepper Potts’ desk is there but Pepper is not, as usual, because the desk is mostly symbolic. There is an overstuffed couch upholstered in some sort of no doubt expensive fabric, so Hope sits on it. She eyes the room for entrances and exits, noting that there are stairs and two elevator bays, just in case Tony had hoped to get the drop on her by appearing from a different entrance than the one she took. Hope keeps her face unreadable as she looks at the art on the walls (a little garish for her taste) and the little refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water next to the couch. With so many options available to a person as rich as he is, Tony is still choosing to stock plastic bottles, and for some reason this lodges right up under her skin like a splinter. She idly wonders if he put out the refrigerator and all of the plastic just to irk her. 

The man himself appears from the back elevator bay, grinning at her in his usual way, friendly but still unreadable. 

“Little Hope Van Dyne, as I live and breathe,” Tony says, with a snarky little smirk. “Get over here.” 

They hug sincerely and air kiss insincerely, as genuine as they’ve ever been capable of with each other. Mutual respect and wariness tend to do that to a person, make things both entirely real, and yet somehow marred by pretenses. When Hope takes a seat across from him on the couches in his office, he looks at her quizzically. 

“To what do I owe this immense honor today? Please tell me its because you want to take my offer to merge Pym and Stark. Or better yet, tell that you’re finally ready to jump ship from that old windbag and come work for me?” 

Hope laughs a little and shakes her head. “No such luck, I’m afraid. I’m invested in seeing Pym rebuild.” 

“A pity, that,” Tony drawls, with a ‘what are you gonna do’ half shrug. “So why are you here, Hope-on-a-rope?” 

Hope figures she should just bite the bullet. “I’m here to talk about the Accords, Tony.” 

“I assume you agree with my move toward accepting my share of blame in world destruction? As I seem to recall, you didn’t take a job with Stark because, how did you put it in your 60 page memo?” He pauses, eyes rolled up to the right while he remembers. “Oh yes. ‘Stark Industries flaunts the concept of personal responsibility in things as mundane as the environmental impact of plastic bottles when they could choose to utilize almost anything else.’” 

She smiles wanly at his memory of her words. “I do agree with accepting responsibility for the destruction you cause, but Tony, The Accords aren’t the way to do that.” 

He arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms, his demeanor registering as surprised and defensive. “Are you afraid of what they would mean for Pym? Last I heard, Project Yellowjacket was permanently sidelined after Cross disappeared, so what exactly is Pym _hoping_ to hide if not another weaponized shrinking suit?” 

Hope arches an eyebrow right back at him, choosing to ignore the insinuation that there are other hidden weapons at Pym to sell to the highest bidder, as well as his excessive amount of puns using her name. 

“Tony. It’s not about that at all, and you know it. It’s that personal responsibility shouldn’t come at such a cost. Do you really want to give the government a list of _people_?” 

Tony shrugs again, a devil-may-care gesture, but Hope isn’t fooled it believing he doesn’t care. “There are always ways off lists, Hope.” 

Hope frowns. “Maybe for people like you and me, people with money and friends in high places. But what about the people who can’t just take off their suits? Those are the people who get hurt by a government registry. No amount of money lets them walk free.” 

Tony stops moving and goes quiet, both things that do disarm Hope, so she braces for his response. He glares at her not with anger as she had expected, but with what is unmistakably _hurt_ so she bites her lip and looks away. 

“What is this? ‘Help me Tony-Wan-Kenobi, I’m their only Hope?’ Tell me, how long have you been in league with Steve Rogers?” 

“I haven’t even met Steve Rogers,” Hope argues, and it’s not a lie. “This is about not letting any government use people as weapons that they can control in exchange for some meager amount of relief funding! This is about not trusting any government to get it right, not even the UN. Half of SHIELD was HYDRA for Christ’s sake, right under everybody’s nose! Under _your_ nose! There has to be a better way than this.” 

She and Tony lock eyes, and she can tell she isn’t getting anywhere, probably because he feels that badly about his role in the Ultron debacle. “What does Pepper think about the Accords?” 

Tony flinches imperceptibly, but she’s known him since infancy so she notices it. Obviously there’s a story there, but he clearly doesn’t want to tell her. “I don’t know, Hope. What does Scott Lang think about all of this? At least I’m not here because of a common criminal,” he says, lashing out because he can, because he knows it will upset her. 

Hope stiffens, chiding herself for failing to plan for Tony’s unwanted opinion about her love life. She should have expected that he'd know about Scott, and that he’d throw Scott’s conviction at her. It’s not that she cares that Scott has a criminal record, exactly, but that’s not the type of person she imagined herself with way back when Tony really knew her, and he knows it. But Scott is a good man, and far from common, so she opens her mouth to speak. 

Instead, as if conjured by strange magic, suddenly Natasha Romanoff is there, just like they had planned. She picked a hell of a time to appear, but Hope feels relief roll down her body in waves, all the way down to the tips of her toes, because she has run out of constructive things to say to Tony. 

Hope can’t help but notice that Natasha isn’t dressed in the casual clothes of someone hanging out at a friend’s place, the way she was before. Gone are the black jeans and the oversized sweatshirt that might’ve belonged to Sam Wilson, and in their place, there’s a tailored sheath dress in a delicate off-white. Paired with towering black Louboutins, Hope could be forgiven for guessing that the whole to-do came from the closet of one Pepper Potts. 

It’s a whole lot risky and just a touch more ruthless than Hope is used to thinking these days but judging by the softening in the hard lines around Tony’s mouth, it’s also absolutely, 100% working. 

“Nat, quick, do that thing with your legs, Pym Tech is here to destroy my company,” Tony says, with a quick flash of a half-sincere grin, as he leans back in his chair. 

Natasha just raises a single eyebrow. “Tony, you know I save that move for Nazis and hot dates only. And if my intel is correct, your guest isn’t interested in being either of those things.” Natasha turns to Hope with a neutral, professional smile firmly in place. “It’s Hope Van Dyne, right? I read your article on leveraging particle physics for waste reduction a while back.” 

“The Black Widow,” Hope says, coolly, with a small professional smile of her own, sizing up Natasha in the way Tony would expect her to do. Hope is otherwise unreadable because she knows that part of this pantomime is showing exactly why she is both revered and feared in the boardroom, and she doesn’t intend to disappoint. “Tony, tell me, did you phone a friend while I wasn’t looking? Or is your security system _that_ inferior? If so, I can recommend a security consult for you. The guy I know is the best.” 

“Better than a state of the art, intuitive Artificial Intelligence System that remembers my tea order every time?” Natasha says, voice mild, as she drops into the chair next to Hope, crossing one leg neatly over another. “Does your guy teach a class?” 

“He is not good with tea,” Hope answers, nonchalantly, without cracking a smile. “But, he’s good at other things.” 

“Disgusting overshare,” Tony proclaims, looking exasperated and a little bit horrified. “I’m going to file that under information I did not need or want to know, and then forget about it entirely. Moving on. Nat, why _are_ you here? I didn’t call you.” 

Natasha shifts, almost imperceptibly, in her seat. “Former SHIELD Director Margaret Carter passed away an hour ago, in her sleep.” 

“She what?” Tony sits up fast from his perpetual artful slouch, and Hope - Hope can only twist her fingers in her lap, letting the knuckles go white, because this isn’t the time or the place to take that in. 

“Rogers is on his way to the funeral,” Natasha says, “I’m going to fly out to join him but...it would be better, I think, if we give him a few days before trying him on the Accords again.” 

Tony swallows thickly, nodding. “What’s the status of everybody else? Present company excluded, of course.” 

“Sam is with Cap, of course,” Natasha says, holding up a hand and ticking off a finger. “Wanda is too, and she’s in the wind. You already know where Vision stands. And Clint - “ 

“Come on,” Tony scoffs. “I’m sure Barton’s with me.” 

“Clint goes where I go,” Natasha says, smoothly. 

Tony leans forward, scrunching his eyebrows together and peering into Natasha’s eyes, like she’s a science subject and he’s trying to figure out what makes her tick. “And where are you going, Nat?” 

Natasha doesn’t break his gaze -- doesn’t even blink or hesitate. “Well, I’m right here, aren’t I?” 

It’s such a perfectly neutral non-answer that even Hope, who has seen her fair share of boardroom power struggles, can’t help but be impressed. If she didn’t know Natasha was playing both sides because she planned it with the spy herself, she’d buy it. 

Tony lets out a small huff of a laugh, and then winks. “You and me, Romanoff, we’ve come pretty far.” 

Natasha settles back into her own seat, letting a small, amused smile slip across her face, like she’s entertained by his antics. Probably, she is -- they all have to like each other at least a little, to do what they do. “We’ll get even further if you give Cap a little more time.” 

At this, Tony idly waves a hand. “Please, Nat. You know waiting for Cap to change his mind is gonna be like waiting for Godot… We’ll all be older than him before he admits that Star-Spangled Ass of his made a mistake.” Tony turns to Hope for the first time in over five minutes, flicking a dismissive glance in her direction. “You can go, by the way. This is Avengers business and last I checked, Ms. Van Dyne, you never got an invite to the clubhouse. I’m signing the Accords. There, you got your answer. Now, go. Flee.” 

“Tony,” Hope says, demurely, almost sweetly. 

“Yessie?” Tony looks back up at her, his gaze softening like he thinks she might change her mind about the Accords just because his abrupt dismissal hurt her feelings. No such luck. 

“You are _such_ an ass.” 

Hope walks to the elevator bay where she came from earlier, her back straight and proud. Knowing there are security cameras everywhere, she touches up her lipstick on the way down, poker-faced, and walks out of the Stark building. Even though this went exactly how she figured it would, it still feels terrible. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hurt feelings are no fun

Hope walks the few blocks back to the W, getting angrier at the whole situation with every step. By the time the elevator dings to let her out on her floor, she’s about ready to burst. She lets herself into the room and takes a few deep, steadying breaths, resting her forehead on the inside of the door.

When she feels in control enough to walk into the room, she finds Scott sitting on the bed, nose buried in his laptop. Scott is dressed in his usual black t-shirt and jeans, barefooted, and on the phone. There are miscellaneous shopping bags on the desk, where inside of one she can see a horribly clichéd I Heart New York shirt in princess pink. Scott notices her and where she’s looking skeptically, and he shrugs. “For Cassie,” he mouths, turning to his computer again.

“No, the camera needs to be mounted slightly higher, Dave. Set it at a 43 degree angle, and physically tilt the lens down and to the right. There you go. See the difference? Kurt, pull the video feed? Much better.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the ticket,” Luis enthuses, his voice tinny over Scott’s phone speaker. “Thanks, Scotty!”

Hope kicks off her shoes, hangs her blazer on the back of the desk chair, and flops unceremoniously down on the bed next to Scott, her dramatically aggrieved sigh fluttering pages of the schematics that he has spread out around the computer. Scott pauses and looks at her quizzically again, then shuts the laptop. 

“Hey guys, Hope is back from her meeting so I gotta get going,” he says, making a ‘wrap it up’ gesture and rolling his eyes at Hope. 

“Hi Hope,” the X-Con guys chorus cheerfully, and she smiles despite herself and her mood.

“Hi,” she replies, pink cheeked, because she’s still getting used to being welcomed like this by people who care about her pretty much just because Scott does. 

Scott hangs up the phone and looks down at her where she’s flopped on the bed. “What happened?”

“Before we talk about Tony, I should probably warn you that there was more bad news, my Aunt Peggy died,” she sighs, staring at the ceiling. 

“Oh, Hope, I’m sorry,” Scott says, sincerely, touching her hand. “I know she meant a lot to you when you were small.” 

Hope blinks slowly, remembering. “We lost touch, mostly just greeting cards back and forth these past few years, more her than me. I should have done better, but she was always encouraging me to forgive Hank. I didn’t want to listen.” 

“I’m sure she knew you loved her anyway,” declares Scott, his tone daring her to disagree. 

She doesn’t disagree with his statement. Peggy was always the smartest person in the room, and the most intuitive. Peggy absolutely knew when she was pushing Hope against Hope’s carefully constructed walls, and she did it on purpose.

“Thank you,” she whispers, feelings churning in her gut. She clears her throat, and Scott takes the unsubtle hint immediately.

“So tell me about Tony, was he worse than you expected?”

“Yes and no,” she answers, her earlier rage returning immediately, so she closes her eyes against the onslaught. “It went how I expected because his mind is set about signing, but he had the audacity to think I would agree with him about it! He was _hurt_ that I dared to disagree. Of all the arrogant, misguided, ridiculous things, can you believe it?”

Scott touches her knee. “Hope, sweetheart,” he starts, but she immediately cuts him off, opening her eyes and looking at him curiously. He’s grinning, and his eyes are soft. Too soft for her equilibrium, really.

“Did you just ‘sweetheart’ me?” she asks, trying to diffuse the sudden onslaught of feelings, a little shocked at his use of the term of endearment.

Scott holds both of his hands out in front of him, mimicking being handcuffed, and eyes her warily. “Guilty as charged, your honor. Do I need to see myself back to jail?” 

“No,” she says pensively, “But nobody’s called me that in recent years besides Hank, so it’s a little weird.” 

“I’ll stop calling you ‘sweetheart’ if you want, but you’re deflecting from what’s actually bothering you,” he points out, and she hates that he’s not wrong. 

Hope thinks about it for a second, and she surprisingly decides to go with the warm feeling in the pit of her belly instead of the terror in her brain to answer. “No, you don’t have to stop. I think I like it. But, go ahead and finish what you were going to say.”

“Are you sure? You might not like it that much,” Scott warns, and when she nods, he continues. “Up until last year, I think that you and Tony Stark probably looked alike on paper. But a lot has changed for you that hasn’t changed for him, so you’re different now.”

Hope rolls into her stomach and props herself up on her elbows to look at him. “Different how?”

Scott sighs again, searching for words. “Hope, you’re around people more. Regular people, people you don’t employ, people who aren’t Darren. You and Hank are … ah, doing better. It’s not just you and your angry cat watching Netflix by yourself.” 

Hope smiles a small smile at him, amused. “That’s because Cassie commandeered Schrodinger and she thinks he’s her cat.”

“Because you let me bring my daughter to your apartment,” Scott points out, “and you know that a few months ago, that was really hard for you to do.”

She nods in agreement, because a year ago she hated Scott, and _now_, well, now she really _really_ doesn’t. 

Oblivious to the warmth of her thoughts, he finishes. “Look, I’m sure Stark has people he’d call friends outside of work, and maybe you’re even one of them, but you — I think you might have gone and gotten a _life_ outside of Pym Tech this past year, sorry to say.” 

“Are you saying I’ve lost my edge,” Hope teases, still pink cheeked. 

“No, not at all. I just think you got better at knowing when and how to use it.”

“I don’t think Tony is wrong on all of it,” she admits softly, and even though she knows that he’s aware, she wants to say it anyway. “It isn’t a bad thing to take responsibility for death and destruction when you had a hand in it.” 

“Of course it’s not a bad thing to take responsibility, but they’d put the Maximoff kid into a cage and keep her as a weapon,” Scott argues, saying exactly what she figured he would, “and that’s never going to be ok to me. What if it were Cassie with the powers?” 

Hope sits up so that she’s eye level with him on the bed and meets his eyes. “If it were Cassie, you know that we’d take on the whole government to keep her out of a cage.”

His face breaks into a sloppy grin. “Good, I wasn’t totally sure where you stood, you’re kind of hard to read sometimes and— ”

She cuts him off from wherever he’s about to go with his ramble. “Scott, I think this is when you kiss me.”

Scott blinks and makes a “oh yeah that sounds better” face, and then he follows her directions as usual. They pull apart at a knock on the door.

“If it’s Barton, so help me,” Hope vows, frowning viciously, and getting up to answer the door. 

“If it’s Barton, I’ll let you kill him this time and then be your alibi,” Scott promises, hovering near the bed, trying in vain to rub her lipstick off his mouth. 

Luckily, it’s not Barton. 

“Hey, new teammates,” Natasha says, leaning against the door jamb, a bottle of vodka hanging loosely from her left hand. “This a bad time?” 

Hope’s wrecked red lipstick on both her mouth and Scott’s indicate that it _might_ be at least the start of a bad time to visit, but after she shoots a short but loaded glance at Scott, he nods almost imperceptibly at her. What they were doing can wait; this visit with Natasha can’t.

“No, it’s fine,” Hope says breezily, like her lipstick isn’t an issue, “come on in. Find a place to sit, if you can. That’s a nice bottle you’ve got there.” 

Natasha collapses into an overstuffed armchair, all grace lost, and plucks three of the little plastic disposable cups off the top of the mini fridge. “Tony is…well, he hasn’t always been like this, lately. But he and Pepper are off, ever since he decided he couldn’t hang up the fight, and I don’t think he’s been talking to a whole lot of people who aren’t Happy or a robot.” 

Natasha shakes herself, as if she’s just remembered where she is, and laughs a little under her breath. “I’ve been spending too much time with Steve and Sam. I’m not usually this ...well ...,” she trails off, unscrewing the vodka bottle and pouring them each a healthy sized shot. 

“He was pretty awful,” Hope agrees as Natasha pours. “Awful even for him, and I remember what he was like when he was in high school. I wasn’t young enough to forget.”

Scott surreptitiously hands Hope a makeup remover wipe from the bathroom, and takes his cup of vodka from the top of the mini fridge. He looks over at the bedside clock that reads 11:54am and quirks an eyebrow. “Are we toasting to anything specific?” 

“To Peggy Carter?” Natasha asks, raising up her own glass. “I didn’t know her but from the stories I’ve heard ...I would’ve liked to, I think.” 

“I did know her,” Hope says, tossing aside the red-streaked makeup remover wipe, and plucking her own small cup up with her other hand. “And the stories don’t do her justice. To Peggy Carter.” 

They do their shots and sit for a moment in silence until Scott predictably can’t handle the quiet. “So, uh, exactly what comes next? How likely is it that this thing escalates into something more serious?” 

Natasha looks into the bottom of her plastic cup, almost as if it were a looking glass, like it could tell her the future. “That depends, I guess.” 

“On what?” Hope asks, voice suddenly sharp with curiosity. 

“On how personal this all gets.” Natasha drops the hand holding the cup down by her side and fixes them both with an assessing look. “If it gets too personal, it will get serious. And it will get messy...for all of us. I want you both to be prepared for that. Especially you,” she says, nodding in Scott’s direction. 

“I would very much prefer not going back to prison,” Scott says, slowly, “but, I don’t want kids with powers they don’t even understand under any type of government control. I’m not really a pro-government kind of guy on the best of days. I should probably talk to Maggie if you think this … polite disagreement... is going to go public.” 

“His ex-wife,” Hope supplies, though she’s sure Natasha has read all of the relevant dossiers on Scott. “We should probably talk to Hank, too, if it might involve the ‘only existing Ant suit.’”

Scott and Hope share another loaded look, and then Hope cocks her head at Natasha, an “assume what you will about what tech might exist, and you’re probably right” type of gesture. 

“You two make a good team,” Natasha says, giving them a small slip of a smile. “That’ll come in handy later, when this gets messy.” 

“You’ve taken it from an “if” to a “when” already? Shit,” Scott says, making a face, already mentally going through all the things that Maggie will almost definitely say to him when he tells her about this. 

Natasha stands up, brushing her hands down her sides to straighten out the folds in her dress, as that calm, neutral expression of hers falls back into place. She tosses Scott a sardonic smirk. “Just being realistic.” 

Scott crosses his arms, a bit defensively. “No offense to anybody here, because so far most of you are pretty cool, not naming names about who’s not cool, but it’s Barton — anyway, what aren’t we being told? This is way too intense to be only about laws that will be broken, probably by Stark himself. This is already very personal to somebody, maybe even a couple of somebodys.” 

Natasha raises her gaze to the ceiling, and exhales hard, pushing a breath out through her nose. “I need you to know that I’m only telling you this because you’re right, you deserve to have all the facts before making this decision, and I’m trying this new thing where I share information when I feel like I can trust people, instead of institutions.” 

“This is a lot of build up,” Hope says mildly. 

“HYDRA killed Howard and Maria Stark, and they used the Winter Soldier to do it,” Natasha says, tone flat. 

“But the Winter Soldier is….” Hope trails off. 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “Tony doesn’t know. I don’t know how he doesn’t know -- maybe he just hasn’t had the time to get that far in the SHIELD-HYDRA data dump, but in the meantime, Steve has Barnes in hiding with Wanda. I don’t know where they are, since I’m not the one who set it up -- Steve wanted it that way, so that I wouldn’t have to lie to Tony about it.” 

“But aren’t you kinda… lying to him already?” Scott asks, but his voice is curious, rather than condemning. 

“I am but...I don’t want to do it any more than I have to. Not right now and definitely not with this.” Natasha shrugs. “I see both sides of it but at the same time -- I’ve been where Barnes is, right now. The only difference between me and him is that I was born into it, and he had a life before it was stolen away from him. I may not know him the way Cap does but I can sympathize with the desire to help Barnes take that life back.” 

Scott blows out a breath and looks at Hope, who looks back at him uneasily. “This ends badly,” Hope warns, “because I know Tony, and when he finds out that he’s been lied to about why Cap is off the grid, and what the lie is, he won’t think straight. He’s sensitive, underneath all of that bravado.”

“It’s also not our fight,” Scott points out, “Our fight is over the impact of signing the Accords. It really is not our problem that Tony Stark feels like Cap is a bad friend now that the Winter Soldier is back.” He pauses. “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”

“Admittedly this would be much easier if Captain America could sit down and work this out with Iron Man, without involving the United Nations, or a government registry, separate from his dead parents and the involvement of the Winter Soldier,” Hope says, dryly, “but now as you’ve so eloquently stated, it’s all so irreparably enmeshed.” 

“Part of the issue is that Tony doesn’t know Steve as well as he thinks he does, nor does he know much about Steve’s life before the war,” Natasha says. “But I see your point and I get it. I’d like for this to go better than I think it will. I’ll do my best and I’ll keep you posted.” 

“Will you give Sharon my condolences?” Hope smiles sadly at Natasha. “I don’t know her well at all, she was very young when Hank broke from SHIELD, but I’d feel better if you did.” 

“Sure,” Natasha says. “She’s picking me up from the airport on the other side, I’ll pass it along.” 

“Wait, just answer one thing before you disappear like you do — I’m here for when Stark finds out about Barnes, right? That’s the real reason why Barton came to get me,” Scott concludes, smirking, mostly at himself. “It’s a good thing you’re here,” he says to Hope, again, “because imagine how stupid it would be if I didn’t even ask questions before getting into an international rumble.” 

The last thing Hope hears before Natasha is out the door and gone is the sound of the Black Widow letting out a loud snort of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the big plot holes that I hate in Civil War is that Scott doesn’t ask any questions and just agrees to help Cap. While I think Scott would agree to help Cap because they have similar political views about governmental overreach, Scott has an entire life full of people who matter. He wouldn’t have bailed without a word, not after the events in Ant-Man. Anyway. 
> 
> This chapter was pretty Scott/Hope heavy because it was implied in Ant-Man and the Wasp that they were pretty heavy before Scott disappeared to Germany without her - and well, he didn’t go without her here so y’all get wrecked lipstick.
> 
> Finally, this is a little self indulgent in that it’s a headcanon that Hope would have known Tony when she was a child and he was a teenager. It’s also a headcanon that Aunt Peggy was there for all the wayward children of ambitious SHIELD men because Peggy was the only one who could manage SHIELD and her own family. Go figure. Men (Hank and Howard), do better.
> 
> \- Dorasolo


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Civil War didn’t do Peggy Carter any justice, Agent Carter was cancelled far too early, and Endgame? We don’t know her. So here is a tribute to our girl.

There’s a pretty large part of Sharon that resents that the funeral is taking place in London. Aunt Peggy spent some of the most significant stretches of her life in New York and D.C. She married an American soldier, after all, and Sharon still remembers those long, impossibly beautiful summers at Uncle Danny’s family farm in Virginia, learning how to shoot cans off a log from Aunt Peggy. 

As far as Sharon’s concerned, those places were Aunt Peggy’s home for far longer than the country of her birth. After all, Uncle Danny and Angie are both buried on the other side of the ocean. But the Carter family has always been laid to rest in Highgate and it was the one concession to her family’s traditions that Aunt Peggy agreed to; it was her peace offering for a whole lifetime of flouting their expectations for her. 

Besides, the British government was always going to want to honor one of their best on their own turf. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Uncle Teddy whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “and you know what my mother would’ve said.” 

Sharon turns to look at him. He’ll be fifty-eight next year, Sharon realizes, and she hasn’t had the time to see him since he was celebrating his fifty-fifth. He looks so much like Uncle Danny did at this age; still with the strong jaw and those deep brown eyes but everything’s starting to get a little greyer around the edges. His dark brown hair has turned almost entirely to salt-and-pepper and in two years, he’ll be the same age that his father was when he died. 

Sharon shakes herself. But Uncle Teddy isn’t dealing with a lifetime of health problems that comes from being a POW, that comes from fighting a war and losing a limb and having all of it managed by mid-century healthcare. Uncle Teddy is a photographer who’s spent the past three years climbing mountains in the Himalayas and outside of that, the biggest danger that he gets up to is riding his motorcycle. 

“Now Edward,” Sharon says at last, mimicking Aunt Peggy’s accent, “you know I don’t give a shit where they stick my bones. What am I going to do, throw a tea party for the worms?”

Uncle Teddy winces. “Christ, I hated it when she called me by my full name.” 

“Edward Gabriel Sousa,” Sharon intones, still in that same mock British accent, “who wears a leather jacket to a funeral?” 

“He says it’s his formal leather jacket,” Lily, Uncle Teddy’s youngest daughter, pipes up. She’s sitting on Uncle Teddy’s other side in her Sunday best, spine ram-rod straight like she’s trying to come across as more mature than her eleven years. 

Her fourteen year old sister Elina, on the other hand, is slouching with all of the insouciance that comes with hitting puberty. When Uncle Teddy’s wife Priyanka shoots a despairing glance over the top of Elina’s head in Sharon’s direction, Sharon finds herself fighting a giggle. She loves this family. They’re all a bunch of globe-hopping lunatics which is probably what makes her love them so much. They share an easy back-and-forth that never would’ve been allowed in her own house growing up. 

Aunt Peggy raised a wonderful family and somehow, she still found time to raise her scrappy great-niece, found time to be there for Sharon in all the ways that her own parents didn’t know how to be, all while being SHIELD Director, to boot. Sharon could live for another hundred years and she doesn’t think she’ll ever stop marveling at everything Aunt Peggy managed to accomplish. 

“There’ll never be another one like her,” Sharon murmurs, right as Uncle Steven takes his seat on her other side. 

“Not at all,” Uncle Steven agrees, drawing the lapels of his three-piece suit together. His partner Geoffrey sits down next to him, reaching over to give Sharon a quick pat on the shoulder hello, before leaning back into the pew. 

“So,” Uncle Steven continues, “is _he_ going to be here?” 

Sharon nods. “We spoke this morning, he’s on his way with Natasha. He, uh…he offered to be a pallbearer, but only if it’s okay with you and Uncle Teddy.” 

Uncle Teddy waves his hand. “A big strapping fellow like that? Of course it’s okay. Doing me and my bad shoulder a favor, I say.” 

Uncle Steven’s lips thin in response. He’s always had a tough time with the general concept of his namesake; it was a lot to live up to, although Sharon knows that Aunt Peggy never meant it to be that way. The honor went both ways, in her mind, and she never placed any expectations on Steven because of the name she gave him. 

Uncle Steven never saw it that way, though, and he spent a long, long time coming to terms with the fact that it was okay that he wasn’t a war hero, that he never wanted to be any kind of a soldier. He’s a gentle man who’s always wanted to live a quiet, simple life; his professorship at Oxford suits him. So does his sweet, mild-mannered bookshop owner of a husband. Sharon can’t pretend that she understands the pull of that life but sometimes, on rare days, she wishes that she did. 

Usually, when she’s bleeding from a gunshot wound through a hastily-made bandage — those are the times when she thinks, hell, if only I worked with Uncle Geoffrey and never went near guns or spies at all. 

But then there’s a flash of red out of the corner of her eye; Natasha and Steve file in quietly at the pew across the aisle, dressed all in black, and still sticking out like sore thumbs. Natasha catches her gaze and offers a small smile; a real one, the type of smile that Natasha hoards like gold and hands out rarely, and Sharon knows that she wouldn’t trade the life she had for anything. It’s insane but it’s worth every second and damn, is the company good. 

The rest of the funeral passes by in a blur. Uncle Teddy speaks and then Uncle Steven does, and Sharon doesn’t even try to pretend like she isn’t crying her way through every soft anecdote, every funny story, until it’s her turn to get up there and say her piece. 

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say until she’s saying it, the words flowing through her like Aunt Peggy is standing right beside her, one hand on her shoulder, giving her the strength to figure it out. But that was Aunt Peggy all over, wasn’t it. 

“If there’s one thing that Aunt Peggy taught me, and she taught me so many things, it’s that no matter what happens, no matter what anyone else says or how tough life gets, it’s your job to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth and tell the whole world: no, you move.” Sharon clears her throat and meets the gazes of the packed church head on. “And I think that if every one of us can muster up just an ounce of that courage, to meet the challenge of the adage that she lived by, then really, she’ll always be with us.” 

When Sharon looks over, Steve’s holding onto Natasha’s right hand for dear life, and he must be clutching it pretty hard because both of their knuckles are white, but she’s not doing anything except letting him lean his head on her shoulder, as silent tears track down his face onto the black of his suit and the deep maroon of her dress. 

Sharon gives him a tremulous smile and he returns it. Across the aisle, Uncle Teddy has both of his daughters clutched close to him, all while Priyanka grips his right shoulder tightly with one hand. Uncle Steven’s eyes are red and so are Uncle Geoffrey’s, but they’re holding hands just as tightly as Steve and Natasha. 

The church is packed full of people; people who worked with Aunt Peggy, old neighbors and old friends and casual acquaintances who knew enough of her to know that they wanted to pay their respects. There’s practically a whole nursery worth of flower arrangements clustered towards the front courtesy of Hank Pym and Hope Van Dyne, on account of the fact that they both couldn’t make it. Hank signed it himself, Sharon could tell, because he said the flowers were from Janet too; Sharon knows that Aunt Peggy and Janet Van Dyne were close, before Janet died. 

In the back of the church, in the very last pew, Antoine Triplett is sitting on the edge of the aisle; he must’ve come in late because she didn’t see him earlier but all things considered, she’s just glad that he’s here at all, alive and whole and shooting her a small, reserved salute. 

They’re all going to be okay, is the thing. They have each other and in the end, that’s exactly what Aunt Peggy would’ve wanted. 

***

“I should have gone to London,” Hope laments, guiltily, as she and Scott meander down towards Hell’s Kitchen for dinner. “What if they don’t like the flowers? Hank and I couldn’t even agree on the arrangements to send so we just sent all of them.” 

They’ve spent most of the afternoon halfheartedly sightseeing in Manhattan because Scott won’t let her wallow in her grief or her guilt, even though she’s trying her hardest to do exactly that. 

“The flowers were all very nice and tasteful, even in the massive quantity you and Hank sent,” Scott tells her, patiently, for the umpteeth time, “and your biggest investor, who you need to have onboard, won’t reschedule the meeting on your plans to fix the environment with Pym Particles.”

She snorts. Hope is nothing if not an over-explainer and Scott has always grasped way more than he lets on of the science behind the Pym Particles, but he knows it makes her laugh when he purposely oversimplifies everything. 

“I still think you have untapped potential for doing good if you think about making giant food with the Particles,” Scott suggests, the idea blossoming in his brain like a field of unrestrained dandelions, eyeing her to see her reaction as they walk down the street. “We could experiment with that any time you want.”

Hope doesn’t say anything to that right away, which is a surprise because he thought that giant food would be an idea she’d be all over. “You’re a pervert,” Hope declares, after a long beat of silence, blushing a very bright red. 

Scott blinks at her, completely surprised by her outburst, honestly thinking only about eating giant food and feeding hungry people with it. In the space of a second, though, he switches gears and grins like the Cheshire Cat. 

“I just wanted to jump into a swimming pool sized birthday cake, but I like the way your mind works better,” he teases, impressed. He’s pleased, because she smiles her first real smile since Natasha left their hotel room.

They walk past Rand Enterprises, the apparently super finicky investor in question who couldn’t manage to reschedule their meeting. “I heard rumblings that the new co-President is much more sensitive to environmental efforts than our current investors,” Hope says, and Scott hears the unspoken worry that Rand will pull out of Pym Tech funding when the focus will no longer be on weapons technology like Project Yellowjacket. He takes her hand and squeezes it.

“I read that the new guy is some kind of hippie from the Himalayas who doesn’t like shoes, and is really into martial arts,” Scott offers, trying to reassure her. “That sounds like the perfect guy to pitch pouring a bunch of money into environmental research. I’m probably biased, but I think you’ll do great.” 

“The other two at the top are Darren Cross’s type of megalomaniacs, they even liked him enough to plan expensive cross country dinners, so we’ll see,” Hope says, worrying her bottom lip, “but you’re right, it’s a very important meeting, and I do need to get it done.”

She takes a deep breath and grips his hand harder, almost hard enough to actually hurt him, apparently coming to a decision. “Funerals are for the living,” she declares. “Aunt Peggy knows that I cared for her, and her family is probably too preoccupied by Captain America showing up to care where I am, that is, if they even remember me.”

Scott looks at her kindly. “You’re unforgettable, Hope,” he tells her, with no hint of a joke. “And it seems like you got a lot of that strength from her. So in her memory, kick a little ass at your meeting. And if it doesn’t work out how you want, you’ll still be alright. You’re not alone anymore.” 

In response, Hope’s eyes get a bit misty as she looks at him, studying his face. Finally, she nods and clears her throat. “That’s exactly what she would have wanted.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Hope make friends with Sam Wilson, Clint Barton is still bad at his job, and it’s about to get real.

The next morning, Hope again dresses for battle in another tailored pantsuit and her lucky Jimmy Choos while Scott lounges in bed pretending to sleep through her morning rituals. He briefly considers going to the gym at the hotel while she’s doing whatever it is she does with her bangs and a blow dryer, but he quickly scraps that idea in favor of calling Sam Wilson to make afternoon running plans after Hope’s meeting at Rand. Hope will inevitably want to blow off steam, and Scott wants to take advantage of the time they might have to talk to Sam before things hit the fan. 

Even though Scott calls him way too early in the morning to be polite, Sam Wilson answers the phone and agrees, as long as they don’t come wearing super suits and decide to lap him like they’re total assholes. Which hey, while it’s a weird answer, Scott takes it as a definite yes, so he agrees that they’ll meet Sam in Central Park near the Arsenal around 3 so they can beat out the post-work running crowds. 

Hope comes back to the hotel room in better spirits than when she returned from Stark yesterday. She reports, while taking out her earrings, that as expected, Daniel Rand was very enthusiastic about Rand money going to environmental programming, whereas the other co-President was a Cross type asshole. Hope has no idea if she’ll get renewed funding from Rand, and when it looks like she’s going to take her frustrations out on the wall by throwing a shoe like a ninja star, Scott lets her know about their running plans. 

“Good,” she says, with a sigh of relief. “I really need to work off some of this resentment from when rich white men tell me my ideas suck.” 

“Good thing I’m poor, and I always like your ideas,” he quips, grinning. 

“You’d better,” she jokes back, affecting a warning tone, “or I might just have to leave your ass here in New York.”

“You’d miss me,” he says, meeting her eyes in a challenge. 

“I’d miss your pancakes,” Hope goads, winking at him as she pops into the bathroom to take off her makeup. Scott thinks about letting her have her privacy, but changes his mind and follows her into the bathroom, hovering where she’s washing her face. 

“I think you’d miss more than just my pancakes,” he says smugly. 

“Is that so,” Hope breathes, ducking under his arm where he’s leaning over her into her personal space, and heading further into the massive hotel bathroom. She stops by the jacuzzi tub. “You want to remind me of what I’d miss?”

“Gladly,” he agrees, and after he reminds her, they have just enough time to put on workout clothes and get to Central Park. 

When they get to the park, Sam is warming up at a bench, one foot propped up on the wood as he stretches out his calves. “I was serious about those super suits,” he says, without looking up. “You start lapping me with some kind of special tech and I’m kicking your ass the next chance I get.” 

“I don’t have a tech suit,” Hope says innocently, but the unspoken word ‘yet’ is still loud and clear.

“And I already kicked your ass with my suit,” Scott jokes, “but I totally don’t have it with me right now.”

“Well, as long as you have it with you in case of emergencies,” Sam says, “and please, never, _ever_ talk about what happened at the Compound again. Nat gave me shit for _months_.” 

They start with a light jog to warm up, seeing as the three of them are still regular humans in what Scott would consider really great shape. Hope observes polite rules of the running road, taking a spot almost directly behind Scott and Sam. 

“We wanted your take on what is happening,” Hope says, after a minute. 

“Yeah, you’re the most normal, so maybe you can tell us a little more about your high maintenance friends? No offense,” Scott puffs, as they speed up into their run.

“Oh, none taken,” Sam says, with a small huff of laughter. “Steve is the most high maintenance friend I’ve ever had. Don’t get me wrong, I love the dude, I’d probably follow him just about anywhere which is not a thing I ever thought I’d say about an old white guy, but...” Sam shakes his head, panting slightly. “You know it’s bad when the ex-KGB agent makes you look chill. Let’s start with you, though. Where are you two at with all this?” 

“The Accords are just a fancy way for supes to say they were just following orders if things go wrong,” Scott blurts, like he’s been waiting for the right moment for drama, but even if it’s not the right moment, it is _a_ moment and he’s taking it.

Hope looks at him sharply. “Nuremburg, Scott? Really?” 

Scott shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of time to freak out about how bad it could get while _somebody_ was at her important meetings. Point being, I think we’re all on the same page about protecting people who will be hurt by the Accords. But I’m not sure where I stand about wading into this mess with Stark and Cap’s ah, disagreement.”

Sam frowns. “That’s fair but...what are you getting at, Lang?” 

“I don’t get why Cap won’t get ahead of this and tell Stark what’s in the data dump… it seems like a better plan than waiting for it to happen.” Scott inhales to take a breath, but coughs suddenly, continuing in a choked voice, “swallowed a bug—” 

He coughs again and clears his throat while Hope is amused. “That’s what you get when you exercise your mouth more than your legs,” she says, smugly.

“Ha ha,” Scott coughs, taking a peek at Sam. He’s surprised to find that Sam is not laughing, and is instead looking pensive, and a little more guarded than Scott would’ve expected. 

As they round past the volleyball courts, Sam takes in a big inhale, and then exhales just as quickly. “Look at it this way, Scott. You lose all of the important people in your life at once and you wake up in a strange new world, and out of all those important people that you lost, suddenly the one that knew you best is somehow, miraculously alive. What would you do, to keep that person safe?” 

A volleyball goes whirling by Sam’s head but he dodges it neatly without missing a step or colliding into either one of them. “Fucking college bros, don’t they know it’s not shirtless-in-the-park weather yet.” 

“Don’t change the subject,” Hope says, piping up from behind them. 

“I’m not,” Sam says, as he reaches up to wipe some sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Look, I’m the king of rash, thoughtless decisions,” Scott says, not entirely joking, “but they sometimes don’t work out,” Hope interrupts with a loud gasp of laughter, and Scott rolls his eyes, “this is one of those, it feels like, what are those things called again? The exploding barrels?”

“A powder keg?” Hope’s voice is wry. “Certainly Steve can see that going off the grid to hide somebody because he already knows what’s in the data dump while Tony is blissfully unaware doesn’t look good. We all know that Tony is going to react to being kept in the dark more than anything else.” 

Sam slows down to a light jog and the rest of them follow suit. “It’s fucked up, what happened to Barnes. I can’t imagine it happening to someone I care about. And this is a whole other story entirely but the shit that happened to Wanda wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either.” 

Sam blows out a breath, tipping his voice lower as they make their way around a pack of tourists. “Steve is...he’s human. He’s an insanely strong asshole of a human who runs laps around me for fun but he’s not an empty suit, he’s not a god passing judgment. I’m not always sure if Stark gets that but...we’re talking about people Cap loves, here, and right now, his rational brain is so far away it might as well be in Australia.”

“It’s not hard to understand why Cap wouldn’t want Stark to get his hands on Barnes,” Scott says, “and I definitely don’t want to see the government get their hands on a kid like Maximoff, but he’s asking us to risk a lot for what’s probably gonna be a bad plan, in the end, because he’s not getting ahead of Stark on this.”

“That’s to say Stark would even listen and be rational,” Sam points out. “I don’t think we’d ever be so lucky. Look. At the end of the day, I’m not asking you for help on Cap’s behalf. I’m asking you to help me help him because this is gonna go FUBAR pretty quick and someone’s gonna have to clean that shit up afterwards.”

“Do you even want my help too, contrary to what Barton’s been saying about me being here?” Hope stops so she can look at Sam, which causes Scott and Sam to stop, too.

”Do I want the help of a ridiculously competent woman who is, and I’m just tossing out a guess here, independently trained in combat like Batman or some shit, who got the upper hand against an ex Army Ranger turned SHIELD agent?” Sam scoffs. “No, I’ll pass on that, I think.” 

Sam turns to Hope, the corner of his lips ticking upwards in a wry grin. “I have solid instincts, Hope. You’re good people. And as far as Steve’s concerned, anyone that Peggy Carter would’ve vouched for is an easy sell. You’re in, Van Dyne. Assuming, of course, that you do actually have a suit.” 

“There’s one in progress,” Hope admits, with a wistful sigh. “It’s not ready. But don’t underestimate what I can do with a headset, a van, and a shrinking disk. Somebody has to be there looking out for you guys if this gets out of control, and I can stay out of sight.” 

“Hey, that works for me,” Sam says, shrugging a shoulder. “No one gets anywhere good without a solid mission control.” Sam turns to face both of them, catching hold of their gazes and maintaining the kind of contact that makes it easy to see that this guy used to be a great counselor. “But seriously...you’re right to be concerned. This is a big ask and we know it. You have jobs and families and lives outside of all this — if either of you wanna walk away, I’m not gonna hold it against you. Neither will Cap. You’ve gotta put your families first and right now, that’s what he’s doing. He’ll get it.” 

Scott grimaces, thinking about his options, because nothing sounds good. Going home to Cassie and hoping the government can work things out doesn’t seem like the right answer, but on the other hand, it’s a huge risk getting involved when he doesn’t know the extent of what Tony Stark will do when he’s upset, or the extent of Stark’s ties to shadow government operations. He knows that he wants to help Sam, because Sam seems like the kind of guy who does a shit ton of work and gets so little of the respect and credit he deserves. 

“Tony will be much worse when he figures out Natasha and Barton are playing him,” Hope warns, worry written all over her face. 

“I don’t think he’ll like you being involved with that plan either,” Scott says, concerned. Hope looks at him searchingly, and he frowns. “I don’t like the idea of him turning against you, specifically. You don’t deserve that from your friend.”

“That’s… really sweet,” Hope says, a surprised tone in her voice like she didn’t think Scott would feel that way, which reminds Scott that maybe he should tell her how high he prioritizes her in all of this, and soon. “But he won’t even know I’m there, if we play it right.”

“The responsible thing to do is to say no,” Scott admits slowly, almost sheepishly. “I know that, I do. I missed way too much of Cassie’s life already and I can’t afford to get caught.”

“I’ll be there, so you won’t get caught,” Hope says confidently, “that’s my job, to watch your back.”

Scott smiles at her. “I really would hate it if the government took a teenager they don’t understand to do God knows what to her. And I’d hate to see what would happen to Barnes. It’s not his fault he was captured by the Nazis and brainwashed.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble again,” Hope declares plainly, looking at him with a lot of feelings, “but I agree with all of what you said. And, I know Hank would rather go on the run than register the Ant and Wasp suits. We blew up our own company to keep the tech out of the wrong hands. We can’t just sit back and let that happen now, after all that work, can we?” 

Scott looks at Sam. “I do have a suit here with me. If this is about keeping the government, any government, really, from getting what they want, of course I’m in.”

Laughing like she’s surprised herself, Hope nods, meeting his eyes again. When she speaks, her voice is low and soft. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m in too. I guess we’re both in.” 

“Antman and almost the Wasp, teaming up again,” Scott muses, besottedly stepping closer to Hope, and she to him, eyes only for each other, forgetting that Sam is there. But Scott is reminded quickly enough when Sam starts making a pointed retching noise, breaking through his Hope-Induced Haze. Scott has the decency to look down at his running shoes even though he’s not sorry.

“Wooooow,” Sam says, letting out a low whistle and pointing at himself. “Did you...did you both just fully forget that I was still here? ‘Cause I’m still here. Sam Wilson. The Falcon. In case you’d forgotten while you were reenacting a Nicholas Sparks novel while in goddamn Central Park.” 

“Sorry,” Hope says, clearly embarrassed by getting caught, but she’s still gazing at Scott, a small smile on her face that warms him all over. 

“No, it’s fine,” Sam mutters, “morons in love is like my whole life right now anyways, what else is new.” Sam clears his throat, raising his voice to full volume. “I gotta say, I have a little more sympathy for Clint right now because y’all are disgusting.” 

Scott scoffs. “Ugh, that guy.” 

Hope rolls her eyes with what looks like the force of her entire body. “Where is that jackass now, anyway?” 

“Not having any fun, I can guarantee you that,” Sam says, with a grimace. “Let’s finish this run, and I’ll fill you in on that part over dinner.” 

~~

When Clint arrived at Stark’s penthouse a little after Natasha left for London yesterday at Natasha’s request to monitor the data dump situation, Stark had greeted him a little too warmly for what their situational friendship warranted, with a very masculine hug and a drink pressed into his hand without Clint actually being asked if he wanted a drink. It was some sort of expensive Scotch, something Clint doesn’t mind, but warning bells immediately started going off about Stark’s mood. 

Clint knew then that he couldn’t let his guard down with Stark, he couldn’t make any assumptions, and he couldn’t afford to drop the ball like he did with Lang and Van Dyne. He figured less was more, and planned on listening to Stark and saying as little as possible. Stark had made it pretty clear that he believed Clint’s point of view would be the most similar to his own when it came down to signing the Accords, and Clint was not about to correct the guy any time soon. 

Besides, he can see why Stark would think that, given that Clint’s a straight white guy in an unassuming position on this current Avengers roster, looking like Tony on paper minus the connections, charisma, and of course, the money.

Clint likes Stark just fine, but their dynamic reminds him a whole lot of his days playing high school football, especially back when he was an underclassman. Clint compares a lot of things to high school football because as it turns out, while you can take the boy out of the Midwest, you can’t take the Midwest out of the boy. Tony Stark has always reminded him of that one popular guy on the team who had everything he ever wanted except actual friends. 

Well. Clint guesses Tony has some friends in Rhodey and Sleepy or whatever dwarf the big nerd guy is named after, but as far as Clint can tell, Tony isn’t an easy guy to know unless Tony wants to get to know you first.

Tony is pretty aloof in general except when he wants something, like how the senior quarterback would get somebody else to throw the post-win rager so he wouldn’t get grounded when things inevitably went belly up at the party. And now, sitting in the Stark penthouse with an expensive Scotch in an expensive chair, Clint knows that Tony definitely wants something from him: loyalty. If Tony was thinking at all, he’d realize that Clint can’t give him loyalty; afterall, Clint’s already spoken for twice over. 

Stark had greeted Clint like a long lost friend, and used that hearty, overkill greeting to segue into a story about how a blast from the past came to try to talk him out of the Accords, laying it on thick about how cute it was that Hope Van Dyne thought that she could ever have that kind of power over his decisions. Sure, Clint certainly agrees that Hope Van Dyne is a real pain in the ass, but it was readily apparent to Clint that her rejection had upset Stark. As they found themselves at the bottom of their fourth glass of Scotch, the topic of conversation turned to Pepper Potts, and how she was mad at Stark for no reason, which… Yeah, Clint would much rather not touch that topic with a ten foot pole but his strategy was to let Stark talk, so he didn’t exactly have a lot of control over the direction their Scotch-soaked conversation took. 

For the most part, Clint had played dumb, not wanting to let on that he had ever met Van Dyne, and shrugged both Van Dyne’s and Potts’ behavior off as a result of women’s mercurial moods and the time of the month. He did this all totally straight faced, while cringing internally about the mere thought of his wife Laura hearing him say that kind of thing. 

Laura is an ex-SHIELD Agent that he met very early on in his career through Natasha, and Natasha has the most uncanny way of matchmaking, but he may be the only person who knows that fact about her and he’ll of course take that to his grave. Laura would hand him his balls if she had to hear him spew the misogynistic garbage he’s spewing to perpetuate the idea that he’s just a hapless man’s man there to fight bad guys. Pew-pew.

Clint had excused himself to the bathroom to text Natasha, specifically to warn Natasha that Tony was actively reading the leaked SHIELD documents, that they were up on his computer where Clint could see them, so he would be monitoring the situation while she and Cap are at the funeral.

He also texted Laura about what to do, and she immediately told him to pick a rich person's hobby. So yesterday Clint took Tony golfing in the sun, and then to a steak dinner, hoping to wear him out. 

No such luck. When Clint arrives the next morning to check on his project, Tony is practically manic and clearly very angry. Sleepy is nowhere to be found, handling a very eager new Stark intern named Peter, which Clint can’t believe would be more important than handling the Accords, but fine. Tony can do what he wants with his seven dwarves. 

Tony distractedly greets Clint, then disappears into his lab, giving Clint some time to check the computer to see how far Tony is in the data dump. With a sinking feeling, his suspicions are confirmed — Tony finished the entire document, including the part about his parents, and Clint could kick himself for failing to plan for Tony staying up all night in a manic insomniac’s haze; it’s not like it would be the first time. But Clint is a little off his game since the fall of SHIELD, and the actual fall from Lang’s window didn’t help; he knows that he’s not bringing his A game, he’s not too macho to admit that, and hell, he really needed some sleep after all day in the sun and a side of beef bigger than his head.

Clint texts Natasha an emergency text to tell her that she needs to come home from London as soon as humanly or inhumanly possible, because not only has Tony finished the documents, Clint can see the data prompt window ordering The Vision to locate James Buchanan Barnes. 

Clint sends Sam a quick text too, and all it says is “The Shiteth has Hiteth the Fan” and a frown face. He has a feeling there won’t be time for jokes in the very near future.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve & Bucky share a moment or two before all hell breaks loose; Sam Wilson thoroughly freaks out & Scott has to calm him down, which honestly, might just make him freak out more. 
> 
> Meanwhile, a pair of local queers have never heard of Endgame before in their lives. It's us. It's the writers. Have we made this joke before? Eh, it's still good.

Steve takes a train from London to Amsterdam, switches to a train from Amsterdam to Paris, and then transfers to a more local train to Lyon, before finding a car that he can hotwire for the rest of the trip. He’s just about to head out onto the highway when he gets the text from Nat about Tony, which gives him the entirety of the drive to Marseille to turn it over and over in his mind until there’s not a single angle left. 

The drive is supposed to take three hours but he makes it in about one and a half. A flight would’ve gotten him there faster but taking two planes into the same airport in a one-week time-span was too much of a risk. He knows that, logically, but Steve still takes the steps up to Sharon’s safe house three-at-a-time. 

It could already be too late. That’s the fear that creeps its way all the way down to his bones, but when he strides through the front door at four in the morning, the apartment is quiet. Used teacups are littered across the counter and the sound of low snores are emanating from all but one of the bedrooms, where Steve can pick up a steady heartbeat and the soft flick of a page turning in a book. 

Steve lets out a breath, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. It’s funny, how in the age of Project Insight and Ultron, there’s still no match for good old fashioned spywork. 

He’s got the three best spies in the game on his side and for once, Steve knows well enough to keep from making any rash decisions until he can check in with at least one of them. He’ll debrief with Maria when she wakes up; for now, Steve lets his feet lead the way to where he’s been aching to be since he first got that text from Natasha two hours ago. 

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, settling against the door jamb to the nearest bedroom, where Bucky is sat up in bed, a battered old copy of _A Wrinkle in Time_ folded in half in his left hand. If Steve closes his eyes, he can pretend that it’s 1939 all over again -- there’s a familiarity to this beat, to the easy sight of Bucky and a worn-down science fiction novel, like no time has passed at all. 

But it has. The ring of scars stemming from Bucky’s metal arm and radiating outwards across his chest can attest to that. 

“I can put a shirt on, if you want,” Bucky says without looking up from the book. 

Steve clears his throat, fighting a flush that he’s sure is crawling up the back of his neck. “No, it’s….it doesn’t bother me.” 

“Not distracting at all, huh?” Bucky flashes a small smirk, an echo of a past life. 

“Don’t,” Steve says, surprised at how harshly it comes out. “You don’t have to ...don't do that, at least not for my sake. I know that....with the things you’ve been through, for Christ’s sake, you don’t have to put on a fucking show, Buck.” 

“Maybe I’m doing it for my own sake,” Bucky says softly, setting the book aside. “Fake it til you make it, isn’t that how the saying goes?” 

“I don’t know, pal, that was created after my time,” Steve cracks, because after the week he’s had, he just can’t take the tension. Bucky lets out a small huff, rolling his eyes, and it’s real enough that Steve gives up the pretense of distance and moves to join him on the bed, collapsing into the firm mattress with a small thump. 

“How was the funeral?” Bucky asks, pitching his voice low. 

Steve leans back into a pillow, settling his hands across his chest. “It was....good, I guess. Beautiful. Her whole family was there...kids, grandkids, Sharon gave a speech. I think it’s what she would’ve wanted.” 

Bucky whistles softly. “Kids and grandkids?” 

Steve nods, fully aware of the wistful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “She married a fellow vet, an American named Daniel Sousa in 1953, I think, although they’d known each other for a long time by that point. They had two kids, both sons -- Steven and Teddy. I, uh, I spoke with them for a couple of minutes afterwards.” 

Bucky scoots down from where he was propped up against the headboard so that he’s level with Steve, scrunching himself down onto the bed. “How was that?” 

“Weird,” Steve admits with a small laugh. “For them too, I think. Steven kept mentioning his father, like he thought he should remind me that his father was real, that they were happy together.” 

Steve is silent for a beat, and Bucky doesn’t say anything. “I’m glad they were happy together,” Steve says, finally. “I’m glad that she found somebody after well, after I died. I’m glad she fell in love and got married, glad that after her husband passed, she found it in herself to love again and settled into her old age with a wonderful-sounding woman. I don’t...I wouldn’t have expected anything less, not from her.” 

“That’s Peggy Carter to a tee,” Bucky murmurs in agreement. “She sure knew how to keep calm and carry on.” 

Steve lets Bucky’s words settle between them, dropping off into silence once more. There’s a lot more that he could say, here, because there’s a hell of a lot left unsaid between the two of them. 

But that’s nothing new. They never did manage to figure out the right way to talk about the time before the war and the casual affection between them that occasionally ebbed and flowed into something else, something beyond friendship. 

And now’s not the time for it. Not when Bucky’s still trying to figure out how to stand on his own two feet and not when the might of General Ross and Stark Industries could come knocking at their door any minute. 

Christ. For a second, Steve almost let himself forget the giant fucking mess that they’re in. 

Steve turns his head to the side, taking in Bucky’s profile in the dim light of the bedside lamp. For all the bruises under his eyes and the scars across his shoulder and chest, he is alive and mostly whole, and Steve...well, what wouldn’t Steve do to keep it that way? 

“Tony knows what really happened to his parents.” Once the words are out there, the air in the room shifts, and Steve feels Bucky tense up beside him. 

“I was wondering when we were gonna get to that,” Bucky says. “Steve....I, I know this can’t be easy for you. Howard was your friend. And the younger Stark, he’s your friend too.” 

Steve’s not sure how accurate that is, really. He likes Tony, most of the time -- likes working with him too, most of the time, but he’s never all that sure if Tony wants to be _his_ friend or Captain America’s friend. There’s a gap there between expectation and reality, and Steve’s never been all that sure of how to bridge it or if he should even try. 

But Tony deserved to know the truth about his parents. 

Steve knows that. He’s known that from the very second those particular puzzle pieces clicked into place but that fact, solid as it may be, is at odds with every other truth that Steve keeps tucked close to his heart: that James Buchanan Barnes never wanted to go to war, that he wanted to take over his father’s business and fix up cars and watch his sisters grow up, that he would’ve married a nice Jewish girl just like his ma always wanted, that he talked in his sleep and laughed with his whole body and kissed Steve like he’d never grow tired of it. 

Steve can’t make all those truths match up, can’t make them live beside each other in his own head. 

“Steve…” Bucky starts, gently. “If he wants revenge, it’s not like I can blame the guy.” 

“You don’t deserve that,” Steve insists, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky opens his mouth to protest. “You don’t. You didn’t...I’m not going to let you take the fucking fall for something that was done to you, Buck, I can’t.” Steve repeats it again, softly this time. “Buck, I can’t.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, blowing out a breath. His flesh-and-blood hand crosses the space between them, reaching out to grab hold of Steve’s hand and lace their fingers together. “So what do we do?” 

Steve lets a small, wry smile cross his face, fully aware of the irony of what he’s about to say when it’s coming from him. 

“We run.” 

~~~

After they finish running the Central Park loop, Scott and Hope go back to their hotel to shower and change while Sam heads back up to the Bronx to start dinner. An hour and a half later, Scott and Hope are back at Sam’s building, Scott loudly commenting on the lack of food smells on their way up after Sam buzzes them inside, Hope shushing him, like that’s ever stopped his voice from carrying.

“I was promised dinner,” Scott starts, as Sam lets them in, “and I don’t see any dinner.”

Hope takes in the scene in front of them, Sam Wilson still in his running clothes, discarded bags of groceries in the small kitchen, a pan on the stove with nothing in it, and two empty longnecks of some kind of craft beer. She raises an eyebrow, and Sam raises the third beer in response.

“Uh oh,” Scott says, conversationally, but he immediately looks very concerned.

“Yeah, uh oh,” Sam agrees, morosely, again raising his beer. “Help yourself to one of these. Tony knows.”

“Shit,” Hope blurts, uncharacteristically. “I really thought we’d have more time.”

She takes a beer bottle from the fridge and hands it to Scott, and then one for herself. 

“You guys drink a lot in New York,” Scott jokes, taking a drink with a loud “ahhh,” clearly trying to lighten the mood. “So far we had vodka shots before noon, now beers before dinner.” 

“Good beer though,” Sam says, reluctantly conceding to Scott’s efforts to cheer him up. 

“So now what?” Hope props her arms on the counter and looks around, a little lost as to what to do next. She fidgets with the pins she used to push her too-long bangs off her forehead in the looming silence. 

“I like to make lists,” Scott declares. Sam shoots a look at Hope, who gives him a half shrug, because it’s true. Scott loves lists and the story about his grandfather who always told him to make lists. He often forgets about making the list as soon as he starts talking about his grandfather, but unexpectedly, Scott is acting very serious tonight. Hope smothers her grin when he manages to continue without talking about his Pap-Pap.

“So, first on that list is ordering a pizza. Maybe two.”

Hope has now figured out the source for the seriousness with which Scott is approaching this list: he’s hungry.

Sam nods. “Yeah, I can do that. What’s next?”

“Second, we put away your groceries so they don’t spoil. That’s a waste of food and money,” Scott continues, matter of factly, holding up his hand with two fingers.

“Fair points,” Sam agrees, eyeing his ignored grocery bags taking up space in the kitchen. “Next?”

“Third, while we wait for pizza, I am going to share one of my favorite tricks of the trade. This is handy if you’re ever caught and need a way to escape handcuffs. I’m going to show you how to smuggle a lockpicking tool.” 

Scott grins like an expectant magician, but Sam blanches immediately. “Lang, if you drop your pants, so help me God, I will kill you and hide the body.” 

“Come on man, this has nothing to do with anybody’s butt,” Scott says, making a face. “What kind of guy do you take me for? Wait, please don’t answer that.” 

“I admit, I’m curious,” Hope hastily cuts in before Sam can reply. Scott is incredibly clever and pretty talented at sleight of hand, so his offer is not one to be taken lightly, even if he is just trying to distract them from what’s going on with Tony. 

“You have one chance to show me this trick before I go take a shower and pretend y’all aren’t here in my kitchen doing weird stuff with your butts,” Sam warns, and Hope is fairly certain he’s joking.

“May I have a bobby pin,” Scott asks Hope, ignoring Sam’s jibe. His eyes are warm, so she wordlessly hands him one from her hair. 

He wipes it off on his pants and dramatically proceeds to stick it in his mouth, up into the crease between his upper lip and his cheek. 

“Unsanitary as hell, but go on,” Sam deadpans.

Scott continues like he hasn’t been interrupted. “Keep it here, because when you open your mouth, it’ll stay hidden, and most law enforcement won’t think to look up there,” Scott instructs, proudly. 

Hope removes another bobby pin from her hair, a little self conscious because her bangs are really out of control now that she has started to grow them out, and wipes it on her jeans. Scott reaches for her chin, gently, and she gives him a tiny half smile. 

“And that’s where I bow out,” Sam interrupts. “It’s a useful trick, but I’m going to shower instead of putting one of those used bobby pins in my mouth, if you don’t mind. Please don’t hook up on my counter.” 

“I’m too hungry for that,” Scott calls after him, so Hope elbows him sharply in the side. She is not going to do anything of the sort in Sam’s house. 

“I did deserve that elbow, you’re so right,” he tells her, and his earnest delivery cracks her up. Scott puts his arm around her and she curls into his side for a hug. Hope notices the TV remote on the counter and turns on the television with it.

“I suppose we could watch the ratification vote on the Accords,” she suggests, with zero enthusiasm, flipping the channels until she finds CSPAN. 

“Oh boy, that sounds fun,” Scott snarks, pulling her further into his embrace, “or, we could hook up on his counter, he practically gave us permission.” 

“He absolutely did not,” Hope starts, digging her fingers into his side, finding the spot just below his ribs where he’s ticklish, but then there’s a loud noise from the television that startles them both out of their flirting. The Vienna International Center is on fire; no, it’s worse, it’s been _bombed_. 

“Holy shit,” Hope whispers, shocked, as Scott yells the functional equivalent. At the sound of the commotion, Sam races from the bathroom in a towel and stands with them, dripping wet.

“I knew one of y’all would swallow a damn bobby pin,” Sam accuses. 

“It’s not that,” Scott answers, pointing at the television. “It’s worse.”

“Shit,” Sam says, dumbfounded. “It is.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slipping towel, chyrons from hell, too many cooks in the kitchen for a conference call, and a stolen bag — Team Cap has got it all!

After the bomb goes off at the U.N. Summit on the Accords, Sam flips to every news channel he gets, hoping that one of them will have something new to say, some additional scoop -- anything, really, other than the constant video of the bomb going off on a loop followed by the damning words in bold, white lettering on the chyron. 

**WAKANDAN KING T’CHAKA DEAD; IRON MAN TONY STARK MISSING IN ACTION**. 

Sam exhales out a big, gusty sigh, and settles on CNN. At least Anderson Cooper doesn’t make him want to poke his eyes out with one of Hope’s bobby pins. 

Scott grimaces and tries to say something helpful. “Hope, I’m sure Stark isn’t, that is, I’m sure he’s not —”

Hope shakes her head, a tiny little movement that effectively silences Scott. Sam knows that she just went to visit Stark, and wonders if they are still or used to be friends. 

“Hey Sam,” she says, clearly grasping at something, anything, to say that isn’t about the horror on the television, “your, uh, your towel is slipping.” 

Scott reads the room and seamlessly cuts in like it’s a rehearsed comedy bit between them. “It’s true, I mean, I’m sure the view would be _fantastic_ and a real morale boost right now, but, uh, we’re not friends like that. And the pizza guy is going to be here soon.” 

Sam looks down and swears softly. Somehow, he completely forgot about the part where he ran out in nothing but a towel. Sam turns around, tossing the remote control at Hope, which she catches with one hand. “Give me two seconds.” 

Sam closes the door to his room with one hand, dropping the towel with the other. In his head, he can just hear his mother scolding him for leaving a wet towel on the floor but right this second, it feels like any moment wasted is a moment when something else could go wrong. Fuck. He disagrees with Stark on a lot of things, sure, but if anything happened to the bastard…

Jesus Christ, this day can’t possibly get any worse. 

When Sam comes skidding through the door to the living room a minute later in socks, sweatpants, and a t-shirt that was definitely last worn by Natasha judging by the faint smell of spilled earl grey and gunpowder, he feels like maybe he should’ve knocked on wood along the way. 

There’s new footage splayed across the screen, accompanied by a brand new chyron that’s just made this whole situation about a thousand percent more fucked up. 

**BOMBER IDENTIFIED: NEW FOOTAGE REVEALS WINTER SOLDIER, AKA SERGEANT JAMES BARNES**. 

“I’m never leaving this room again,” Sam says bleakly. “Please tell me the Winter Soldier didn’t decide to go for the Full Monty of killing Starks.” 

Hope crosses her arms over her chest, staring at the screen like it can reveal the answers she’s looking for, while Scott tiredly runs a hand across his eyes. There’s a worried furrow etched in between Hope’s eyebrows, confusion in her voice. “It doesn’t make any sense. I thought he was in hiding. This is...this is not hiding.” 

Sam swallows hard. It makes sense if HYDRA sunk their teeth into Barnes again. It makes sense if he’s been under their control this whole time, if he’s only ever been playing the role of recovering POW to make Steve happy, to turn Captain America complacent. 

He doesn’t want it to be true. Sam hates the thought as soon as he has it because it’s a cruel thing, imagining that duplicity and then placing it side-by-side with the small, tentative hope that Sam’s watched unfurl within Steve over the past few months. 

But Sam has to be the one to voice that cruel, horrible thought because it’ll never occur to Steve, he’ll just let Barnes settle even deeper into the blind spot that Steve’s placed him in. 

On the coffee table, Sam’s phone starts to softly buzz with an incoming call. It’s the pizza guy, and he goes to retrieve it from the front door by rote, even though he’s no longer hungry for dinner. As he’s setting down the box on the counter, the phone rings again.

Sam snatches it up, sees that this time, the call is coming from a contact that’s labeled “the old man,” and presses accept. “Steve. You’re watching this, right?” 

“Yeah, _we’re_ watching it,” Steve says, voice grim. “Sam, Bucky’s been with me all day. We haven’t even left the safe house since I got back from London.” 

“Well, shit,” Sam says. That’s both good news and bad news. Good news for Steve, good news that they don’t have to fight the Winter Soldier, good news that no matter what comes next, at least Sam won’t be picking up the emotional wreckage of his best friend. 

But the bad news is, now they have to figure out who had the means and the opportunity to believably frame the fucking Winter Soldier. And they _still_ don’t know where Stark is or if he’s injured or even alive. Christ. “This better not be Nazis again,” Sam huffs, before he notices Scott and Hope looking at him quizzically. He’s gotta bring them in on this all the way -- they’re smart and trustworthy and they deserve it, after all this running around. So, Sam makes a snap decision. “Hey Rogers, I’m here with Lang and Van Dyne, I’m gonna put you on speaker and maybe you should do the same, we’ll do a quick roll call.” 

There’s a brief pause on the other line and then Steve’s voice sounds out again, this time sounding a little further away. “Got it. You’re on speaker over here.” 

“We haven’t seen any actual video footage of the bomber,” Scott blurts, without a greeting, his voice strangely high. “Just a still shot from the news.”

“So?” Hope looks at him, clearly concerned, because Scott is gawking openly at the phone and pulling at his shirt collar.

Scott clears his throat, sounding more normal, though his expression is still comically shocked. “So, maybe there’s something wrong with the footage itself. There are ways to doctor a video, if you have the right tech… by the way, Captain America? I’d just like to say, it’s a real honor to be on this conference call with you.” 

“Huh,” a new voice rings out, hoarse with disuse but unmistakable nonetheless, “turns out that _still_ takes some getting used to.” 

“Stop it,” Steve chides, presumably in Barnes’ direction if the answering huff that comes through the receiver is any sign at all, before clearing his throat and snapping back to business. “Thank you, Scott. And Hope, too. I know that you were brought on under less than perfect circumstances and I appreciate you hanging in there on this one.” 

Hope smiles a sardonic little half smile to herself and settles back in her chair, relief evident in her expression. “It certainly was a rather unusual invite,” she begrudgingly allows. “If we’re going to talk now, should we loop in Natasha?”

“Speak of the Devil,” Sam mutters, as his phone lights up with a second call and he presses another button on the screen to link them all. “Nat, we have the whole gang.” 

“It’s a party,” Natasha deadpans. “I’ve got Clint with me.”

“Awesome,” Hope snarks softly, mostly speaking to an obviously appreciative Scott.

“You were saying something about video,” Sam directs at Scott, trying to get him back on track, a migraine starting at the base of his neck.

“Oh yeah, we definitely want to see the full video sooner than later, if we can get our hands on it. I can get my tech guy back home to look at it too, double check to see if there are signs of tampering that we can use. As long as, I mean, you’re absolutely sure it wasn’t Barnes.” 

“Now, my memory isn’t the greatest these days,” Barnes interrupts. “But I’m about eighty-five percent certain that I would’ve noticed going all the way to Vienna and back to blow up a building.” 

“Not if you’re mind controlled,” mutters Clint, barely audible, but still audible enough.

“Hi Clint,” Maria speaks up. “I’ve had eyes on the guy since I woke up this morning, the worst I’ve seen him do is pour too much sugar in his tea.” 

“And read a trashy book.” Wanda’s voice pops up, sounding like she’s standing somewhere behind Steve and Barnes. “He has very bad taste in science fiction novels.” 

“Sam.” Even through the phone and across the ocean, Steve still comes across as painfully, ridiculously earnest. “Sam, it wasn’t him.” 

Sam rubs at the back of his neck, trying to idly work out a knot of tension to fight off the headache. It helps, hearing from Wanda, knowing that she’s safe. 

And besides, Maria’s word is as good as gold in Sam’s book. Fuck, he can’t believe they’ve got another conspiracy on their hands. 

Sam nods at Scott. “You said you have a guy that can take a look at the video, run some scans?” 

“Yeah, my guy Kurt is one of the best hackers around, great with tech,” Scott enthuses, “even better than me with that stuff.” 

“Your guy Kurt,” Clint interjects, incredulously, “I’m guessing that Kurt is another convicted felon? Why would we want to involve another one? He can’t be that great, he got caught.”

Scott scoffs. “Come on, Barton, you don’t think that people get caught the first time they commit a crime, do you?”

“He definitely does,” Hope cuts in snidely, seeming to take offense to Clint’s quick dismissal of Scott.

“What is your goddamn point, Van Dyne,” Clint demands hotly.

“The point being,” Scott says firmly, radiating his own annoyance at being dismissed, “it’s a possible frame job, and I can help prove it if you’d stop being such a dick about everything. But let’s assume it’s definitely a fake. The real question then is who is doing the framing, right? So, who would want to set Barnes up this badly?”

There’s an uneasy silence.

“We need to find Tony,” Natasha says, voice tight with worry. “We need to make sure he’s okay and then we go from there.” 

“Agreed. I don’t want to take any major steps until we know he made it out okay,” Steve says, blowing out a breath that comes through as static on his phone. “Can you get a hold of Rhodey? I’ll admit, I wouldn’t even know where to start over here with this burner phone.” 

“I can get you a copy of the video, Lang, and I can call Rhodey,” Natasha confirms. “See what he knows, he’d be the first person Tony calls especially now, but the rest of you….” 

“We need to go to Vienna,” Barnes breaks in, voice soft. There’s a small tsch-ing sound noise to him, like Steve opened his mouth to protest and was shushed just as quickly. “_I_ need to go to Vienna. Don’t look at me like that, Steve. I can’t spend the rest of my life running from one boogeyman to the next. I didn’t kill the King of Wakanda but I did shoot JFK, so it’s not like I can blame anyone for jumping to conclusions. We have to head this off at the pass.” 

“Barnes is right,” Sam says. He turns on his heel, pointing at Scott. “Lang, once you get the file from Nat, you get started on your video analysis. Maybe by the time we all get to Vienna, we’ll have proof and a plan but we can’t afford to waste any more time sitting around waiting for decisions to get made. We do that, the decisions get made for us.” 

“Are we just gonna blow right past that thing about JFK,” Clint butts in. “Because uh, what?” 

“Not the time, Clint,” Natasha says impatiently. “Anyways, it was in his files. Did no one read those?” 

***

The cab ride back to the hotel in Times Square is intensely quiet as the gears grind in Hope’s head, and she swallows convulsively past the guilt she feels about Tony going missing after the bombing.

She can feel Scott’s eyes on her as he gauges her mood, respectfully sitting on his hands to keep himself from drumming a rhythm on his thighs, which is what he normally does when he’s nervous, but it annoys her. As they cross the bridge into Manhattan, he breaks the silence.

“Quite the mess we stepped into,” he says, quietly, looking straight ahead. 

“I called him an ass. Those were my last words to him,” Hope groans, flopping her head backwards against the leather seat in the car that smells too strongly of fake pine.

“He’s been called worse than an ass, I’m sure,” Scott jokes, gently, “and I’m sure he’s fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Hope argues stubbornly, wishing for the millionth time that she had even a small iota of Scott’s optimism. 

“Sure I do,” Scott answers, grinning at her. “If,” he drops his voice very low, “space aliens can’t kill him, this won’t either.” 

Hope smiles at him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and means it, because if he wasn’t here with her she’d probably be running on a treadmill, beating herself up for all of the things she can’t change about the situation. 

“I’m glad _you’re_ here,” Scott replies, looking at her with mischief in his green eyes. “Without you, Captain America could ask me to destroy an entire airport and I’d probably say yes.”

She laughs. “You wouldn’t go that far, even without me, that’s ridiculous. I feel bad for Sam and Natasha for all the work they have to do, though. They have a whole team full of agents of chaos to manage, and I only have one.” 

“And you don’t mind managing me?” He’s looking at her with what appears to be a lot of emotion riding on her answer so she digs deep not to snark at him in response. 

“Nah, we’re partners,” she says, softly. “I like managing you.” 

He looks away from her toward his lap, trying to hide the huge grin that is threatening to split his face, and doing a terrible job. 

“I can’t wait until you have a suit too,” he confesses, tugging on her sleeve until she takes his hand. Hope bites her lip and smiles up at him again, touched that she found somebody who’s almost as excited as she is that she’ll finally get to take up her mother’s mantle. 

The cabbie pulls up to the hotel and interrupts what was promising to be quite a moment, which is fine with Hope, because she’s thinking she should have big moments with Scott _outside_ of cars, too. 

They go up to their suite, and Hope immediately settles down to buy one way tickets to Vienna for the both of them, while Scott starts taking equipment out of a small, nondescript black bag that’s sitting near the dresser.

Before she can make the call to the airline, Scott looks at her expectantly, and it’s clear he's concerned. “Are you sure it’s ok if you’re seen with us? I don’t want Pym to get hurt if you look like you’re some kind of vigilante. If I’m outed as Ant-Man, even flying with me to Vienna could be dangerous to your stock.”

Hope is touched again by his thoughtfulness. “I’ll take the risk flying with you to Vienna, and when we get there, I’ll stay small and out of sight if there’s a confrontation,” she promises. “Besides, we have a lot of crosswords to do on the plane. I wouldn’t want to leave them all to you or you’ll mess up the entire book.”

He makes an awful face at her for that one, so she kisses him to get him to stop.

When she finishes buying the tickets, Scott has set up a lot of equipment on the dresser, including a small laptop, but he’s looking at her expectantly again. She quirks an eyebrow at him, waiting for his next question.

“Are you really ok with fronting all of that money to go to Vienna on short notice? That definitely wasn’t chump change, and I can’t possibly afford to pay you back.”

Hope shrugs and smiles impishly with one side of her mouth as she meets his eyes. “What good is being a billionaire if you don’t spend money to help people save the world?” 

Scott shrugs and jokingly salutes her as he boots the strange laptop, drumming his fingers anxiously on the bedspread. 

“Scott? I don’t remember you packing that bag, or owning that stuff,” Hope starts, looking around the room at what is obviously very expensive tech.

“I didn’t,” he answers, guilelessly, typing quickly across the keys of the computer. “I took it off of Barton when we were all at Sam’s that first night. He wasn’t paying attention, and I figured it might come in handy.” 

Sometimes he’s so calculating behind his boyish charm and goofiness that she’s left speechless. At her silence, he looks up and raises his eyebrows at her. “Impressed?” 

“Oh buddy, I’m way more than just impressed,” she quips, and his eyes heat in an instant. He starts prowling across the room over to her, so she laughs and swats him away despite wanting nothing more than to be distracted. “Hold your horses, you have some work to do.”

Scott good naturedly grumbles, still grabbing for her, but he startles when a burner phone on the dresser suddenly rings. He picks it up with aplomb. “Hi Natasha. Good thing I lifted Barton’s bag, right?” Hope may only be able to hear one side of the conversation, but with Scott distracted, she lets herself watch him, amused by the myriad of expressions that he goes through, from screwed-up serious to a sly, smug grin. “Yep, I did and he didn’t even notice, so either he’s a bad spy or I’m a _great_ thief ...yeah, heh, it could be both ...uh huh, I just got the video file… Yes mom, I’ll remember to switch the SIM card before I call Kurt… You had a burner phone delivered to him? Awesome… Did he accept the package or is he sprinkling salt on it? Cool... You’re very 007.” 

Scott hangs up with Natasha, switches to a different SIM card, and busies himself with calling Kurt. There’s not a lot else that can be done right now, so Hope busies herself with her skincare routine and changing into pajamas. Scott narrates what every step of what he’s doing for her while she’s in the bathroom, from sending the encrypted video file to Kurt, and then decrypting his copy of the file for them to watch in the hotel. 

By the time she finishes, he has the video ready and they peel back the heavy hotel blankets to curl up together in bed, the laptop balancing on Scott’s lap. They watch the video of the bomber all the way through, and it is to her eyes convincingly Barnes. If she didn’t have three eyewitnesses placing him elsewhere, a kernel of doubt would’ve started to form in the pit of her stomach. Scott must see something she doesn’t, though, as he puts on his reading glasses, pauses the video, squints, and declares himself convinced it’s footage from a different event. When she makes an incredulous noise, he explains that he thinks it’s zoomed in and made black and white to mask the location.

Hope is too exhausted to join him down that rabbit hole, and still worried about Tony, but her mind is moving too fast to sleep, especially while Scott is still playing with the laptop and video file next to her on the bed. 

She turns on the television to the news, her one very serious addiction, and lets out a small gasp that makes Scott glance up from the laptop. 

Prince T’Challa of Wakanda is on the screen live, giving a speech in English, as flash bulbs go off and his voice gets louder. The chyron on the bottom scrolls: 

** PRINCE T’CHALLA VOWS TO FIND THE WINTER SOLDIER USING ANY MEANS NECESSARY TO BRING HIM TO JUSTICE **

Scott exhales with gusto, and shoots her a heavy look. “It looks like Vienna is waiting for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have we mentioned that trashing the airport makes no sense? 
> 
> It makes no sense.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This AU is very very soft. Morons continue to be in love all across Europe and Sharon has to do everything herself, apparently.

Bucky’s still getting used to the sensation of waking up normally in a bed, wrapped up in warmth instead of getting shoved out of the freezer. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, his brain holds memories of sleeping in and taking his time with it, of yawning slowly until his jaw cracks and then burrowing deeper into the wool blanket that his Ma knit for him and sleeping in a couple of hours extra on Sundays. 

He likes to think it’s something he could enjoy again. It’s a nice thought, hidden amongst all of the other FUBAR bullshit. 

For now, though, he goes from slumber to awake in the span of a second, eyes flicking open and both arms already pushing him up so that he can assess the room better. 

Safe house. Early morning sunlight leaking in through the window. Steve, sitting in a chair by the window with a familiar furrow between his eyebrows, watching him. 

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, pushing himself further up onto his elbows. “Please tell me you haven’t been watching me sleep all night, pal.” 

“Of course not,” Steve protests, the wrinkle between his brows deepening further. If the distance between them was shorter, if he was seven decades in the past, Bucky would reach out with one hand and just smooth it away, easy as that. 

There’s an unconvincing twist to Steve’s lips that betrays how thoroughly full of shit he is. It’s a miracle, probably, that that’s something Bucky still knows for sure. He had to google his baby sister’s birthday but still, despite everything, he knows all of Steve’s tells. 

Steve slouches down in the chair, kicking socked feet up onto the bed. “I just…don’t need much sleep, is all.” 

“Technically, neither do I, but I still managed to grab a few hours,” Bucky points out. He cocks his head, considering. “You think that’s ‘cause of all the brain damage?” 

A complicated expression crosses Steve’s face, his lips tightening but his eyes crinkling, like he can’t decide if he should be miserable or start laughing. 

Bucky makes the decision for him, sitting all the way up and resting a hand, his flesh and blood hand, on top of Steve’s feet. “You know, you used to like my gallows humor.” 

Steve huffs. “A lot happened between then and now, Buck.” 

“Yeah, I did hear about disco,” Bucky says mildly. A flush of warmth fills his chest when he’s rewarded with a small uptick in the corner of Steve’s mouth. 

Steve rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and slouches even further so that Bucky’s fingers find purchase on the warm skin between where Steve’s socks end and his sweatpants begin, like an anchor holding them together. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice deceptively light, “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

“Shit, I don’t know.” Steve lets out a groan, digging the heel of his hands into both eyes. “There’s a lotta ways this could go wrong, Buck. While you were sleeping, the prince of Wakanda put out a statement saying that he’s gonna take revenge on you by any means necessary and there’s something about him that makes me think he could make it happen. I don’t… I wish I could see the way out, wish I knew how to sort out this fucking mess in a way where no one gets hurt. I don’t… I don’t want it to end in a fight.” 

“Huh,” Bucky says. “Never thought I’d hear those words outta your mouth, pal.” 

Steve drops both hands to his lap, glaring at Bucky with baleful eyes. 

Bucky ignores him. He turns his next words over in his mouth before he says them, assesses them carefully because he wants to get this part right. 

“Steve, if you don’t want it to end in a fight, then it’s not gonna. I don’t know Stark or General Ross or anything about this prince, but I know you. You’re as stubborn as a bull and you always find a way to make the impossible happen.” Bucky clears his throat but his voice catches on his next words anyways. “Come on, look at what you did for me, huh?” 

“Should’ve done it sooner,” Steve says softly. 

“Steven…” Bucky steels his voice because he wants to make this very clear, doesn’t want to rehash this anymore than they already have because Steve can’t carry this guilt around, not when it’s not his to shoulder. “Don’t be stupid. There’s no way you could’ve known. You didn’t think you’d survive a plane crash into the fucking Arctic, did you?” 

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing,” Bucky interrupts Steve before he can even try to follow that train of thought any further. “I fell over a hundred feet down a ravine. I thought I was dead, you thought I was dead, it’s done. We’re here now and we have a whole other basket full of problems to deal with tomorrow.” 

“Well, you got me there, pal.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest but settles into a small, rueful smile anyways. “If we run into Tony or Prince T’Challa in Vienna, how do you wanna play it?” 

Bucky closes his eyes, lets the mental image of Howard Stark bleeding to death on a road flitter across the backs of his eyelids, like ripping off a band-aid. He doesn’t want to run away from the things that he’s done, for all that Steve would fight a war to prove his innocence. It was his hands that did it. Bucky carries the memory inside of him, alongside all of the many other gruesome crimes that he was made to commit. 

Bucky opens his eyes, but avoids Steve’s gaze. He doesn’t want to see the affection that he knows he’ll find there. “I’ll face Stark. I’ll talk to him. I… I’m not worried about what he’ll do. If he wants to take a couple of swings at me, I’ll let him. As for the prince, well… we’re just gonna have to hope that the video analysis comes through, that he’ll pause long enough to take a look at the evidence. But at the end of the day… it’s Ross that I’m worried about.” 

“I won’t let Ross turn you into that again,” Steve says, and Bucky probably should’ve expected that Steve would know exactly what he was getting at there. 

“Even if it means killing me?” Bucky asks, raising his gaze to meet Steve’s at last. Steve’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest but Bucky doesn’t let him. “Pal, I’m not saying I want to die. I don’t. This… I’ve finally started to get myself back and I want… I want to take back whatever’s left of the life that I used to have, I want to find out what that could look like. But I’m telling you right now, I would rather die than go back to being anyone’s asset.” 

“Remember when the biggest problem in our lives was scrounging up enough money to take the subway?” Steve asks in a weak attempt at forced light-heartedness that doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Bucky snorts. “I think _my_ biggest problem was keeping you from getting your brain knocked out of your eyeballs in a back alley but sure, the subway fare was definitely up there.” Bucky taps his index finger against Steve’s leg once, twice. “Don’t change the subject, Rogers.” 

“I hear you,” Steve says, voice heavy with a misery that Bucky wishes he wasn’t the source of. “I’m just… I’m not going to let it get to that point, alright? I’ve got a good team, here. I trust them. We’re not going to let it get to that point.” 

Bucky lets out a slow exhale. He’s pretty sure that they’ve exhausted the number of agonizing conversations that they can have within these four walls and he’s sick of being the reason for that hang-dog look on Steve’s face. “Yeah, I gotta say, I never thought that I’d be putting my life in the hands of some guy in a bird costume and another guy who goes by … Bug-Man?” 

“I think it’s Ant-Man,” Steve corrects. “He sounds nice. Sam trusts him and that’s good enough for me.” 

“You’re just saying that ‘cause of Bug-Man’s obvious crush on you but sure, Rogers, whatever you say.” Bucky smirks slightly at the immediate flush that spreads across Steve’s face. “I mean, the fella’s got good taste, I can’t say that I blame him.” 

Steve leans forward, resting one hand on his leg, close enough that their fingers could brush, if Bucky wanted them to. “Good taste, huh?” 

“You know that life I said that I want to try and take back?” Bucky hooks his pinky finger through Steve’s. “You’re part of it, if you want to be.” 

“I want to be,” Steve says, with almost impossible gentleness. 

“Well, then,” Bucky says. “Looks like we better get to Vienna and get this all over with, then.” 

***

Sharon lives her life by two very important rules: one, that all cheeseburgers should be served medium-rare, no exceptions, and two, never trust an old white dude with a Tom Selleck ‘stache. 

In retrospect, if she’d known that Alexander Pierce had sported a similar mustache in his youth, she might’ve picked up on a few things earlier. 

So, the second General ‘way too interested in super-powered individuals to be normal’ Ross started sniffing around, talking about legislation to control the Avengers, Sharon started making plans. 

Plans like coming up with dummy passports for every single powered or powered-adjacent individual that she could think of. Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne. If she could name them, she made a contingency plan for them. 

The only person she didn’t make a contingency plan for was Natasha and that’s just because she knows Natasha would find it entirely insulting. 

There’s not a lot of opportunity in the world of intelligence for true creativity and if there’s one thing that Sharon never fails to get a kick out of, it’s fake passport names. 

Which means that when she gets an alert that Van Dyne bought her and Lang plane tickets to Vienna under their own names, there’s already a plan in place. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Sharon mutters at her computer. “Never use your real names.” 

From everything that she’s read about the woman, she would’ve expected Van Dyne to know better. But with the tumultuous beginning she had meeting Clint and the team, the cross country time difference, and the fact that she’s friends with Stark, who is currently MIA and possibly injured, she’ll cut Van Dyne some slack. It’s a pretty crazy situation. Luckily, she already has passports and getting the plane tickets to match is just as easy. 

Or perhaps not-so-luckily, since the year that Sharon spent on Steve’s detail in Dupont Circle was entirely boring and meant that she spent a lot of hours on the couch, watching syndicated reruns of Gossip Girl. 

And sure, the show quality went down over the seasons and Chuck Bass definitely should’ve ended that series in prison, just like Blair Waldorf should’ve realized that she was harboring sapphic feelings for her sometimes-friend Serena, but hey, no one asked Sharon. 

Still, they do make for good fake-name inspiration. She goes with a good first season reference to the odd couple of Van der Woodsen and Humphrey, because it’s just so apropos for Lang and Van Dyne. She laughs to herself as she sets the whole thing up, making sure that Lang and Van Dyne get handed the passports and the tickets at the exact right time by her guy in NYC, disguised as a taxi driver, all while she makes a private bet with herself on which of the two will get her references. 

Right now, her money is on Lang. 

***

“I can’t do this,” Scott blurts, eyes wide, looking at Hope as she comes back from getting late night snacks from the vending machine. It's an abrupt departure from how he was before she left, with his excitement about Viennese snacks derailing any thought of them going to sleep before meeting up with the rest of the team. Hope and Scott are checked in under the names Hazel Van der Woodsen and Seth Humphrey, the same names as the one on the new passports the mysterious taxi cabbie handed over on the way to the airport. 

Scott really wants to meet the mastermind behind the disguises. Hope had needed a reminder to get the reference, and Scott still isn’t sure she really _did_ get it because she probably didn’t watch a ton of television in 2008 — but he definitely got it because he spent too many brain cells on Gossip Girl. 

“Which part?” Her voice is wry. “We already flew another nine hours to get here, why would you want to back out now?”

“Half a Xanax and reading me the science behind the Wasp suit made the flight go by so fast,” Scott agrees amiably, it’s one of his favorite in-jokes with her, but he gets serious again almost immediately. “I don’t think I can do the part where I meet Captain America,” he admits, looking up sheepishly, wanting very much for Hope to consider taking pity on him. 

He should know better than that because instead, she crosses her arms and looks at him with a skeptical single-raised eyebrow. “He’s your childhood hero, and you doodled so many Cap shields in our crossword book that we almost ran out of blank space. Of course you can meet him.”

Scott grimaces, feeling a little pathetic, as the ramble that’s been building in his head finally breaks free from the safe confines of his inner monologue. “What if the image and the man don’t match and I lose my hero? Or, what if _he_ doesn’t like _me_ because I’m a felon? Or, what if I tell him all about Paw-Paw’s replica doll that I took with me to college as a good luck charm? Oh god, Hope, what if I get nervous and I actually say _that_?” 

At that, Hope breaks and does take pity on him, sitting down on the bed next to where he’s having his anxiety attack. “Well, his special friend shot JFK, so I think you should be okay on the felon part,” she says, tone thick with amusement, but her words do the trick. 

“Special friend?” Scott raises his eyebrows at her, color returning to his face and mischief into his voice. “Picked up on that from Sam too, huh?”

“I can read between the lines as well as you can, even though apparently you’re the real gossip girl in this relationship, ‘Seth Humphrey,’” she drawls, joking. “But anyway, I really don’t think the felon thing tracks as something that will bother him. Besides, it’ll be fine because _I_ like you, and I’m probably pickier than he is.” 

Scott snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah _probably_. But seriously — what if I say the thing about the Cap doll?” 

“If you do that, I’ll have to pretend I don’t know you,” Hope answers, deadpan. 

“If you can’t handle me at my worst, you can’t have me at my best,” Scott retorts haughtily, lobbing a pillow in her direction while she laughs. 

Hope impulsively kisses him on the cheek, getting up again to rummage through his luggage. She pulls out his nicest button down shirt from the pile, and hangs it in the closet. “You’ll be fine, Scott. But change your shirt before we head out for the meetup. The one you’re wearing has your plane drool on it, and that’s unforgivable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! xoxo, Dorasolo and defcontwo


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott finally gets to meet Captain America, Sam and Bucky get into a squabble, and Maria Hill always knows exactly what to do. And then someone entirely unexpected shows up at their door.

A scant four hours later after having weird dreams about meeting Captain America in his underwear, Scott wakes to the burner phone he stole from Clint buzzing with an incoming text. It’s from a blocked number and all it contains is an address and a room number in the same Marriott that they’re in right now. 

“It’s go time,” Scott tells a rumpled and sleepy Hope, who had adorably buried herself back under the covers for “just five more minutes” approximately a half hour ago. She’s dressed and ready in 15 minutes, yawning, and fumbling with the in room espresso machine to get her first hit of caffeine. She looks casually put together in a black sweater and dark jeans, her business suits hung neatly in the closet, which she explains as unnecessary when it’s probably just Sam and Natasha for breakfast. 

Scott doesn’t know why Sam or Natasha would send such a cryptic text so he manages to stress himself out so badly about a possible ambush (and another arrow full of benzodiazepines) that not even Hope telling him he looks nice can calm him down. Well, okay. Maybe her praise calmed him down a little. 

“Maybe you should knock,” he suggests to Hope once they are within a few feet from the door. 

“Me? So I’m the one who gets ambushed?” Her eyebrow raises again. “Is this what’s happened to chivalry these days?”

“It’s what happens when your girlfriend is basically a ninja,” Scott says grandly, testing out the word ‘girlfriend,’ gesturing to the door with a flourish. “After you.”

Hope glowers at him. “Seriously?”

He nods. “Absolutely. Ladies first, because chivalry _isn’t_ dead.”

Hope rolls her eyes, but she does knock on the door while he stands behind her. A slight teenage girl, with box black dye mostly covering what is obviously bright red hair, cautiously opens the door. The girl looks at them, and the air smells a bit like ozone as she sizes them up warily. 

“Hey, I know you,” Scott enthuses, breaking the tension, his eyes soft and friendly. “You’re Wanda Maximoff. You’re great! I’m Scott Lang and this is Hope Van Dyne. We’re here to help with… whatever it is you guys need help with, I guess.” 

Hope rolls her eyes at him again, but he likes the fondness he can see behind the exaggerated gesture. “Good morning, Ms. Maximoff, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Wanda’s fine,” the girl says, with a small slip of a smile. “Or Anne-Marie, if things get dicey.” 

There’s a snort from somewhere behind Wanda in the hotel room, so Wanda takes a step back, letting them both in. The room looks like every other Marriott that Scott’s ever walked into in the world: there’s a bland, beige color scheme set off by entirely mis-matched dark grey furniture, including a bed-side table that undoubtedly has a King James Bible in one of the drawers. It doesn’t look like the kind of room where they should be having a meeting like this. 

Not for the first time, Scott is hit by the surrealness of what they’re going through. 

There’s another woman in the room -- she’s older than Wanda, maybe in her late-thirties, with dark hair up in a severe bun and ex-military written into every inch of her shoulders. She rings some major “Authority Figure” alarm bells in Scott’s brain but he reminds himself, she’s on _their_ side, regardless of who’s giving the orders up top. 

Hope must come to the same conclusion because she closes the space between them, reaching out a hand for Maria to shake. “You must be Maria Hill. I’m Hope Van Dyne. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Maria grasps hold of Hope’s hand, casting an assessing glance between her and Scott. “If it came from Nat, don’t believe a word of it.” 

“I did my own research, I promise,” Hope says with a reassuring smile. 

“Yes, she’s absolutely lethal with a web browser,” Scott deadpans, and he’s pleased when Wanda laughs at his joke. 

“Oh, please don’t,” Hope says earnestly to Wanda, “he’s so much worse with a receptive audience.”

Scott scoffs at her, but she hasn’t moved away from the hand he has surreptitiously on her lower back, so Scott takes it as a win. 

There’s footsteps in the hall, made all the more noticeable by the way Maria looks up and then her shoulders relax an inch, like she knows who they belong to. 

A second later, Scott hears the sound of the door opening behind them and two sets of booted feet padding their way in, followed by a deep voice that until very recently, he’d only ever heard through TV or old film reels. “Oh good, you’re all here.” 

Scott fights the part of himself that wants to cry about seeing his childhood hero in the flesh with all of the strength he has, but that means he gawks at the man, _Captain America_, instead, mouth agape. Hope lightly pinches his leg so he gets the point and he closes his mouth. “Hello,” he blurts instead, eyes wild and heart in his throat. Hope lets him squeeze her hand even though he knows he’s squeezing a bit too tight.

“Hello, Captain,” Hope echoes, her voice cool and collected in contrast to his, and she never ceases to amaze him. “And you as well, Sergeant.” 

“What she said,” Scott manages, but he immediately crumbles again. “I’m just such a fan.”

“Aw shucks, I didn’t even know I had fans,” Barnes says, coming to stand at Steve’s elbow. “All I did in the newsreels was carry a Tommy gun and scowl in the background.” 

Barnes’ face is a blank slate and terrifyingly impassive right up until Steve nudges him, paired with a “Jesus, Buck,” and a despairing glare that Scott’s pretty sure closely mirrors one that Hope has directed his way a time or two. A distinct giggle comes from Wanda’s direction, but she’s studiously pretending to read the label of a box of Viennese crackers.

“I deserved that, I really did,” Scott admits, nodding to himself, and he sympathetically pats Hope on the back. Her head is bowed forward and she’s pinching the bridge of her nose _just so_, a tell if there ever was one that she expected something exactly like this scene.

Even so, it’s a weird thing to see, Bucky Barnes making a joke and Steve Rogers gamely trying to live through it, mostly because it takes the image of the two of them that Scott got used to seeing growing up in all the books and cracks it in half. The stoic figures standing in a war zone in sepia are gone and instead, there’s just two guys pulling faces and giving each other fond looks. 

Steve steps forward, holding out a hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Scott, Hope.” 

Scott gives himself a thousand mental bonus points because he manages not to shake Steve’s hand for too long, avoiding that small source of further awkwardness. He also has to admit to himself that he is actually saved from further embarrassment by Sam Wilson’s timely entrance into the room, bearing a giant box of pastries.

“Alright, so, my German sucks so I couldn’t really tell you what’s all in this box,” Sam says, kicking the door closed with one foot, “but all of it looks good because it’s Vienna and they’re pastries, so don’t ask questions and just start eating.” 

Sam sets the giant pastry box on the table next to the TV and flips the lid open, revealing a vast array of various breakfast pastries that would make Paul Hollywood jealous. The sudden twist in Scott’s stomach reminds him that he hasn’t had anything to eat that didn’t come from an airplane in over twelve hours and he eagerly reaches forward to snag the nearest round, sugar-laden dumpling. He lets Hope have the first bite of his because she “doesn’t eat pastries.”

All of the awkwardness in the room rushes right out as everyone seems to remember that they’re hungry at the same time and crowds around the little media table to grab something to eat. 

It feels a hell of a lot like the days when Kurt rolls up to X-Con with a box of pastries from that place over on Stockton Street and then they all have to spend the next three hours listening to Kurt and Dave argue about which is better, sesame seed balls or lava bao. 

“Oh come _on_,” Sam’s voice suddenly rings out. “I picked that one out for myself back at the shop, you asshole.” 

“Gee, that’s funny,” Barnes’ voice answers, in what Scott is starting to recognize as standard droll behavior from this literal war-hero-turned-urban-legend, “‘cause I didn’t see your name on it, Wilson.” 

Sam sputters. “What, was I supposed to _lick it_ before you picked it up?” 

Barnes shrugs and takes an enormous bite, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. “Delicious,” he says messily through the bite, “thanks for this.” 

“Fuck you,” Sam mutters. “I flew halfway around the goddamn world to save _your_ ass and you ate my pastry.” 

Barnes just waggles his eyebrows as he slowly works his way through the bite of pastry and when he finishes, he turns to Sam and smiles widely. 

“Well, this is fun,” Scott comments merrily, and this time even Hope laughs along with Wanda, which he considers a second personal victory in front of Captain America. 

Steve lets out a low snort, which is just another surreal moment in a long series of truly strange events. “It’s like watching you fight over babka with your sisters,” he says pointedly to Barnes. “You know, like when you were twelve. Guys, is this still about the steering wheel?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely, it’s still about the steering wheel,” Sam says, glaring at Barnes, “and the fact that you always call _this one_ at unholy hours,” and at this, Sam jams a thumb in Steve’s direction. “Somehow, it’s always when we’re on the road and I want to get my goddamn beauty rest.” 

Barnes opens his mouth to say something back and Steve just holds up a hand. “Buck, Sam...we’re kind of in the middle of a situation here, maybe pull on each other’s pigtails later.” 

Sam screws up his face, letting out a “eugh” noise. 

“They’re worse than you and Hank,” Hope stage whispers to Scott, tucking her fingers into the ticklish space underneath his ribs. He unsuccessfully pushes at her hand. She of course knows he’s ticklish, but she doesn’t seem to care and now he’s almost whining in agony and wiggling in front of Captain America. 

“No, they’re worse than _us_,” Scott counters, finally pulling her back towards him bodily so she can’t tickle his side anymore.

“Are we really that bad?” Hope wrinkles her nose, and it’s adorable, but she has to know at this point that they’re not at all subtle anymore.

“Yes,” Sam answers vehemently, interrupting his own continued griping about Barnes as well as Scott’s flirting with Hope, “Y’all are disgusting.”

“_Children_,” Steve calls, with not-quite mock severity. “Stop.”

For a second, Scott doesn’t think the directive is going to make a bit of difference in the chaos, but then there’s a loud rap on the door and they all fall silent. 

‘Natasha?’ Sam mouths at Steve. Steve exchanges a meaningful glance with Barnes, and then they both shake their heads. Super-serum hearing, right. 

Barnes approaches the door, leaning forward to look through the peephole. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a small, minute shake of the head and some kind of complicated military hand gesture that most of the room seems to understand. Then, he swings the door open. 

On the other side of it stands the Prince of Wakanda and what looks like a semiautomatic from the future.

“Oh shit,” Sam says, startled, standing up from his perch on the back of the couch. 

Wanda mutters something in Sokovian, and the bedside lamp explodes. She cringes, wetness starting to well up in the corner of her eyes, so that must not have been on purpose. Scott rushes to soothe her, a crying child not being something he ever likes to see, so he puts his hands up and starts speaking slowly. “You’re fine… I mean, we are fine, right?” 

He looks around the room, eyes wide. “Aren’t we?”

“Do you have a gun,” Hope murmurs to Maria, who already has a gun out in one hand and her remaining apple strudel in the other. Maria winks at Hope and slowly takes a bite, portraying confidence in a situation that is rapidly unraveling.

“Oh shit,” Sam repeats himself at the exact same time Captain America says, “Bucky, _no_,” but it’s not at all clear whether he means for that to be “Bucky, no, please don’t attack the Prince of Wakanda” or “no, Bucky isn’t guilty, please don’t kill him.” Maybe both. 

Barnes shoots Steve an exasperated look and then steps aside, allowing T’Challa to enter the room all while slowly backing up, holding up both hands in surrender. 

“So, here are the Avengers,” T’Challa says, his Wakandan accent coming through thick and musical, as he kicks the hotel room door swiftly shut behind him. “More hospitable than I would’ve expected.” 

“Technically, I’m more of an adjunct Avenger,” Scott corrects, and then promptly resists the urge to bang his head into the wall. “Hi. I’m Scott.” 

“Hi, I’m Scott,” Hope quietly mimics, snickering. 

Somewhere behind him, there’s the sound of a strangled laugh that he’s fairly sure came from Maria. 

Barnes, with his hands still up, cautiously wades into the conversation again. “Not to ruin this Laurel and Hardy routine or anything, but I should probably ask if you’re here to kill me. Are you here to kill me?” 

“Originally when I located you, my intention was to kill you, yes,” T’Challa admits. He’s still holding his crazy futuristic gun but he makes no move to aim it. 

“But now… you’re… not?” Sam rubs the base of his neck. “I have to admit, I’m not following. You went on TV and said you’re going to kill him. And, you’re carrying a hand cannon.”

At this, T’Challa starts to smile, which somehow makes this whole thing more alarming. “We have never met. I did not know how you’d respond to seeing me, so I had to bring a weapon. You understand.” 

T’Challa inclines his head in Barnes’ direction. “But, I am not here to kill anybody. Consider yourself lucky. My sister Shuri, when I landed in Vienna, she told me that she believes the video footage has been compromised. She said that she’s running scans now to be sure, but she believes the footage is fake.”

Scott shoots his arm into the air in victory. “Yes! I knew it!.. er, I mean, that is. I also have somebody professional looking at the video for evidence that it’s fake, uh, sir. King sir. Sir.” 

Hope looks at him like he’s lost his mind and he looks back at her apologetically because maybe he has lost his mind after all; this is just so much to have happen in one room on one day. 

Steve takes a step forward towards T’Challa, one hand outstretched. “Well, then, your Majesty. I think we have some things to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this chapter and are in a giving mood for the holiday season, why not give the gift of a comment? We’d love to hear from you! Xoxo


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Avengers in a storage hangar after dark, talking about the Accords and their feelings. What could go wrong?

When push comes to shove, it was never really difficult to track Tony Stark to the hotel that has the highest security and the highest energy usage according to the power grid. Tony inevitably has some sort of computerized system searching for the Winter Soldier. Clint and Natasha make quick work of bypassing all guards, electronic and sentient, and knock on the door.

A nondescript man opens it, and Tony is sitting on a bed, banged up and bruised, while The Vision stands next to an oversized laptop screen.

“Nice of you to let us know you weren’t crushed in an explosion,” Clint says, aiming for nonchalant but it comes out a little too angry at the radio silence. Clint and Natasha spent some time reassuring each other that Tony wasn’t dead, so to see him just sitting around like this is upsetting.

“Nice of you to let us know you were working with Rogers the whole time,” Tony retorts in the exact same tone, refusing to make eye contact.

“You really think that’s what this is, Tony? Picking favorites?” Natasha takes a deep breath and then pushes it out. That kind of move never works on Tony and Clint knows she knows it, so he doesn’t say anything. She steps into the room until she’s standing facing Tony, forcing him to look up and meet her gaze. “I’m trying to keep my team alive and together and minimize the damage. Steve may have gone down a road that could tear the team apart but so did you.”

Tony crosses his arms and glares at Natasha. “People died in Sokovia.”

Clint shakes his head. “This is about way more than that now, and you know it.”

Tony scoffs. “Fine, he killed my parents. Good enough of a reason to tear the team apart for you, Barton?”

“It is a good reason,” Clint starts, but Tony cuts him off.

“See? Clint says it's a good reason,” Tony says airily, as if any of this is that simple.

“I was going to say, it’s a good reason if it didn’t involve mind control,” Clint says through gritted teeth. “You know, I love my wife more than life itself but if Loki had told me to….”

“What?” Tony breaks in again, just as smug, with a skeptical purse of his lips. “You would’ve what, strangled her to death?”

Clint takes a step back, as his face turns white. Natasha makes as if to reach out to him but Clint moves out of range, waving his hand at her in a “no, I got this” gesture, shaking his head. “Now, I was gonna make a joke about how under mind control I would’ve slept with Coulson to lighten the mood but since you want to go there, Stark, yeah. If Loki had told me to, I would’ve killed my wife. And I would’ve spent the rest of my miserable fucking life re-living that horror.”

Tony is quiet a second. “You and Coulson, huh? That’s the first person you thought of?”

“Ha-ha,” Clint says. “Come on, Tony, think about what I’m saying.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking about. My mother is dead and it’s not justice for him to just go off and live his life like what he did doesn’t matter. It’s not. And when I find him, I intend to find justice.”

“Thought you were from New York, not Texas,” Clint quips, but there’s no humor in his voice. “Didn’t think you would go for that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Natasha announces, holding both of her hands up. “Boys, this is getting us nowhere. Tony, what if I could arrange for you to meet with Steve and Barnes on neutral ground?”

“For what reason? What are the chances that Barnes will sit still to let me and the soon to be king of Wakanda kill him for patricide?” Tony jokes. At least, Clint hopes he’s joking.

“I know where they are,” Natasha begins.

“Of course you do,” Tony sighs, sounding exhausted.

“As I was saying,” Natasha continues, whatever annoyance Clint knows that she must be feeling completely and totally hidden, “I know a little of what’s going through Barnes’ head right now, if my own experiences are anything to go by.” Natasha keeps her voice calm and steady, just like always. “I think if you spoke to them, you’d be surprised.”

“I don’t think it’ll change anything,” Tony warns. “But, I’ll give it a half hour. After that, I’m going to call in the cavalry. Time’s ticking, so let's get this show on the road. Lead on, Widow.”

***

The box of pastries is nothing but crumbs and cardboard when Steve’s phone rings. The Jurassic Park theme song rings out from his jacket pocket and Steve heaves an exasperated sigh at Bucky’s questioning look.

“Natasha,” he says flatly. “She thinks she’s funny.” Steve digs the phone out of his pocket, flipping it open. “Hey Nat, what’s your status?”

“What, no comeback, you old fossil?” Natasha’s deep voice comes in low and amused, which immediately gets Steve’s back up. He knows her a lot better than he used to, back when they used to run ops together out of DC. She only tries to make light in a situation like this when she knows she has to ease him into some bad news.

“Nat…” Steve says, in a warning tone. “What is it?”

Natasha makes a soft humming sound. “Should we go with the bad news or the worst news? I guess it could be good news, I think it’s good news, but you on the other hand…”

In the background, Steve can hear Clint’s muttered ‘dude, let the man off the hook already,’ before Natasha moves away from him.

“Alright, here’s how it is,” Natasha says brusquely. “Tony’s agreed to a meet-up in a neutral location with you and Barnes. The Vision is staying back as a show of faith. I’m running point.”

“He looks like he’s about to throw up,” Scott says to Sam and Hope, taking a step forward, and while his voice sounds like he’s joking, his eyes are frantic. “If _he_ looks like he’s about to throw up, what are we going to have to do?"

Hope pulls Scott back from where he’s started walking by his rear belt loop. “Whoa there, Chicken Little. We should probably wait until he’s off the phone and he just tells us,” she says reasonably, but her eyes mirror some of Scott’s worry.

Steve waves a hand at Scott and tries his level best to stand up straight and look like he’s not feeling his insides try to fight their way out through his throat. He’s the leader, he can’t panic and he can’t let everyone else down. That’s not who he is, that’s not what he does. Steve startles slightly at the warm settling of Bucky’s hand at the base of his spine, and then leans back into it.

“Steve,” Natasha says, her voice softening. “I know how much Barnes means to you. But we have to figure a way out of this and right now, this is our best shot.”

“She’s right,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve wants to laugh, a little helplessly, and ask “about which part?” But it’s a stupid question, he knows. How he feels about Bucky is written all over his face. He’s pretty sure even Scott and Hope know, and he met them all of an hour ago.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs into the receiver and is surprised by the weird static he gets in response. This really is an old phone. “You’re right, Nat.”

“I’m the captain now, Steven,” Nat cracks, and Steve puffs a laugh. “It’s from…”

“I know, I saw it,” Steve interrupts. “Come on, give me a little credit, alright?”

“Sure thing, fossil,” Natasha quips, and then she hangs up.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. Alright. Okay.”

“My dude,” Sam says, waving his hand in front of Steve’s face like he’s trying to check for vision problems. “What’s okay?”

Steve shakes himself internally and leans into the steady weight of Bucky behind him. He can do this. They can all do this. His life for the past five years has been nothing but improbable event after improbable event and they can do this.

After all, they have a good team. They have a good leader. Most days, that’s all you really need.

“Okay,” Steve says, and then quirks a quick smile at Sam’s eye roll. “We have a plan to meet with Tony. Nat’s going to be running this op. Who wants to be at the main event and who wants to be on standby?”

“Standby,” Scott says immediately, to some errant chuckles. “What?”

“We’ll be standby on the ground,” Hope explains, hiding her own grin. “We’ll shrink and be just outside, I’ll be in the van, Scott will be in his suit.”

“I’m with you, Cap,” Sam says, and Steve feels his shoulders loosen just a little. He’s asked a lot from Sam pretty much since the second they first met. He’s surprised, constantly, and unspeakably grateful that Sam’s still willing to come along for the ride.

“I’ll be your eyes in the sky,” Maria says. “I’m in touch with our mutual friend, he’s preparing escape routes for us as we speak.”

Steve nods at her, and there’s a little frisson of relief running through him, like they’re getting the old gang back together. He doesn’t always like Nick very much but he trusts him to do the right thing, when push comes to shove. Now, anyways.

Wanda steps forward, both hands clasped in front of her in an expression of nerves. “I’m, uh. I’d like to be with Maria, if that’s okay. Close by, in case you need me...need my powers. But I think if I’m there, well…”

“It’ll be like walking in with the nuclear option,” Sam finishes, and Wanda lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.

“If I may,” T’Challa says, with all of the gravity of a king, “my sister Shuri has verified that the video has been faked. I feel very badly about my televised threat. Perhaps I can take Sergeant Barnes with me to Wakanda, until this business with the Accords is settled? Consider it my apology.”

“Oh man,” Scott exclaims. “Oh man, I wish that was me invited to Wakanda. Except,” he corrects himself hastily, waving his hand in Bucky’s direction, “I mean, I don’t wish this was me at all.” He takes a breath and blows it out. “I’m talking out loud when I should be quiet. Forget I said anything.”

Steve can feel Bucky’s laugher reverberate through him and in spite of the gravity of the moment, warmth spreads in his chest at the sound of it.

“I appreciate the offer, Highness,” Bucky says. “And I may wind up taking you up on it. But first… First, I need to face Stark. I owe him that.”

“Very well,” T’Challa says. “You’re an honorable man, Sergeant. I’ll accompany you to this meeting with Mister Stark, then. Perhaps my ah, unique perspective can be of use here.”

A buzzing sound disrupts the moment, and it takes everybody a minute to locate the source, which is Scott’s jacket pocket. The coat is thrown haphazardly on the sofa, so Scott rushes across the room to grab the phone that’s buzzing. He looks up at the expectant crowd. “It’s my guy Kurt. He confirms what the King’s sister says. The video is fake.”

Sam claps his hands together. “Well then, Avengers. Let’s go.”

***

It’s not comfortable walking into this in civvies. Sam feels too exposed, standing in the middle of an empty hangar in an airport with nothing but a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Sure, there’s a pocket knife in his back pocket but he doesn’t want today to be the day he stabs Tony Stark in the jugular with a camping tool.

Steve and Barnes are similarly dressed but even now, it’s easy to see the strength that the serum gives them, to see how easy it would be for them to transition from civilian to soldier. The loose sweatshirt that Barnes has covering his arm is fooling no one.

“Easy there, Wilson,” Maria murmurs in his ear. “You’ll be okay without your bird suit.”

“Fuck you, Hill,” Sam mutters, but the reminder that she’s hidden with Wanda up on the roof, hopefully covered by the dark of night, helps to ease his tension.

“No sign of anybody out here,” Hope cuts in over the com link. She is in the shrunken van somewhere nearby the nondescript sedan parked outside the hangar, though her exact whereabouts would be hard to pinpoint because she’s just that small. Scott is in his suit with the tech that controls the ants so there are eyes everywhere, even in the dark.

Steve turns around, giving Sam a small smile that Sam thinks is probably meant to look reassuring but just comes across as vaguely constipated. Sam shoots him a thumbs up anyways.

The hangar door creaks open. Barnes stiffens; Sam’s pretty sure they all do, in reflex.

“Who brought beer?” Stark walks into the room first, with Natasha and Clint right behind him. Clint drags his hand down his face wearily, shooting Natasha a look.

“What,” Stark continues, deceptively innocent. “I was promised it would be just a bunch of former friends gathering to have a little talk. Figured there’d at least be some libations to soften the blow.”

“I was always more of a bathtub gin kind of guy,” Steve says, with a practiced neutrality. “But that was a long time ago. Hi Tony. It’s good to see you. I’m...I’m glad you’re okay.”

Barnes shoots Steve a narrow look that Sam can’t read; Sam pushes out a breath. The air here is tight, like a rubber band wrapped too tight, waiting to snap.

Stark makes a little check mark in the air. “Was that a Prohibition joke? Let’s call it a Prohibition joke so I can check it off my list of niceties that we have to go through before we talk about the elephant in the room. The one-armed murdering elephant in the room.”

For all Stark wants to portray control, and Sam is positive that Stark wants to portray control, the little tick in the muscle next to Stark’s eye and his labored breathing betrays the reality that he’s rapidly losing control instead.

“Tony,” Natasha murmurs, putting her hand on his shoulder, but Stark shrugs her off. On second thought, Stark has never been in control tonight.

Stark spins on one heel, pivoting towards Barnes. “Why shouldn’t I kill you right here, you son of a bitch?”

Barnes takes a step forward, both arms raised and palms open. “Stark. I don’t have a good reason for you. You want to kill me, I ...I get it. I’d want to kill me too, if I were you.”

“Buck,” Steve interrupts before Stark can say anything, but Barnes waves him off.

“Don’t, Steve. I know what you’re gonna say. But remember, it’s all the same to me, in the end. It was my hands,” Barnes says, voice tight with emotion. “My hands that did it. That’s the truth. I’m not going to stand here in front of Howard’s kid and say any different.”

Clint scoffs. “Maybe your hands did, but your mind did not,” he says, so clearly exasperated. “I keep saying this and nobody listens. It’s like being at home with my kids when it’s bath time.”

“Something sure does stink,” Scott’s voice says in Sam’s ear. There’s a rustling sound and a bit of muffled laughter.

“Sorry,” Hope says, after a tiny pause. Sam stifles a laugh and rolls his eyes; apparently there is never a time that’s off limits for the two of them.

Tony sighs, a great heaving sigh seemingly devoid of his normal theatrics, and he looks exhausted. “I don’t want to be responsible for your death because that makes me just like you, and I’m better than that. This is why I want the Accords. You should be tried for what you did to my parents, and to the King of Wakanda, no holds barred, and let that be justice. Whatever it is. Why is this so hard to understand?”

“Well, this is awkward,” a smooth voice rings out from behind Natasha and Clint. “I apologize for being late, I had a few things to wrap up. Hello, Mister Stark. My name is T’Challa and I’m afraid we have a few things to discuss.”

Sam resists the urge to whistle lowly. The prince of Wakanda does cut a very sharp figure, even standing there in casual civvies.

“Now is not the time to thirst after a prince,” Maria whispers in his ear, and Sam scoffs softly.

“Shut up, you can’t even see me,” Sam whispers back.

T’Challa clasps his hands in front of him, inclining his head in Barnes’ direction. “Multiple sources have analyzed the footage from Vienna and come to the same conclusion: it was faked. Sergeant Barnes was not behind the bombing in Vienna but someone wants very badly for us to think that he was.”

“Sounds like evidence for a trial,” Tony insists.

“Tony, come on. In what world is this something that the United Nations is equipped to deal with?” Steve’s outburst is tinged with exasperation, like he can’t believe the words that are coming out of Tony’s mouth and Sam can’t blame him.

Sam’s positive that Tony hasn’t taken a single minute to try and actually figure out what the UN is capable of doing, or what they’re allowed to do. Steve needling under his skin isn’t going to change that, though.

“You just found out that someone framed Bucky for the bombing and what, you don’t want to know more?” Steve presses again, but then Barnes places a hand on Steve’s arm, shooting him another look that Sam can now recognize as a ‘Steve, shut the hell up,’ look.

“No, I found out that somebody believes Barnes didn’t commit a crime, and I said that should be good evidence in a trial. And then other people without a horse in the race can decide if it’s enough to let him walk. That’s how trials work, I’m told,” Tony answers, his smugness restored to full glory as he struggles to regain his composure.

“There is no trial,” Scott says to Sam. “Somebody who isn’t me has to know that.”

“There’s no trial provision in the Accords, Tony,” Natasha points out, concerned.

“Finally,” Scott sighs.

It’s a large omission, and one Tony would not have overlooked unless for some reason he had either meant to keep it out or it was taken out before he saw a final draft. Right now, Sam is betting on the latter.

“I swear it was in there,” Tony says, frowning and puzzled. “But, if it’s not, somebody can make an amendment and put it back in,” Tony insists a second later, waving his hand. “A resolution, right? One of those?”

“Dear God,” Hope mutters in Sam’s ear. “Maybe Hank was right moving us to California if high schools are that bad in New York.”

Sam swallows a laugh, covering it with a cough. Besides, he has a point he needs to make here. “Tony. There’s someone trying to frame Barnes and they almost got away with it. They took the trial provision out of the Accords. What makes you so sure that if there was a trial anyway, it would even be a fair one? That’s not how all trials work.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “And you pre-judging the trial before it even happens, that’s better?”

“For Christ’s sake, Tony, you won’t even consider the possibility that you could be wrong, will you?” Steve says, striding forwards, one hand tearing its way through his hair. “You’d rather do what looks right instead of taking a fucking minute to think it through and do what’s actually right. All style and no substance, huh?” Steve lets out a derisive snort, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s you to a tee.”

“I’m not wrong, he told you he’s guilty,” Tony spits, the muscle under his eye twitching again as he stops less than a foot away from Steve, index finger pointed into his chest. “That’s the only reason you wouldn’t want him to have a trial. Because your friendship with him doesn’t stop him from being guilty - and if not of the King’s death this time, he’s still guilty for my parents deaths. Does he still sound like the pal you should be trying to protect? Maybe you’re the one who picked wrong.”

Tony grins, a harsh slash of teeth that’s maybe more of a grimace than a smile. “Is this what a Captain should do?” The word Captain is said with scare quotes. “Should a Captain drag his loyal followers down with him? How many people do you have here, ready to go to jail to help you and your childhood buddy? He killed my parents. My. Parents. Don’t talk to me about style over substance when you aren’t made of any substance. You’re just excuses.”

“When you are both finished being emotional,” T’Challa starts, and Sam sucks in a startled breath that’s half shock and half of a laugh. “Perhaps we can focus on just the facts.”

“The fact is that Barnes was mind controlled for most of that time,” Clint repeats, obviously annoyed at how often he’s said this. “He was just the weapon, Tony. A weapon in the hand of extremists for decades. He’s not the one who should be on trial for that.”

“You weren’t there, with how things went down in D.C., Tony. After that, I don’t trust that the people who should be on trial won’t be running the damned thing,” Sam agrees, nodding. “The trial would just be a joke, and you know it.”

“Also, the Accords aren’t retroactive,” Hope says in his ear. “I’m not a lawyer, but it seems like the only eligible offense would be King T’Chaka’s death, and Barnes didn’t do it.”

Sam sighs and repeats Hope, word for word, because it’s just easier that way.

“Howard had a lot of enemies,” Natasha points out, kindly, quietly. “He was neck deep in a lot that you aren’t proud of, Tony. He had a target on his back, and what if getting you to kill Barnes is a way for the people who are guilty of his death to cover it up? Come on, Tony. This isn’t what you wanted from the Accords.”

“What would you suggest I do, then? Let him go?” Tony’s voice comes out high and incredulous.

“For now, yes,” T’Challa says, directing a sharp look in Steve’s direction as Steve opens up his mouth to argue. For all that Sam’s pretty sure that Steve holds some very strong anti-monarchist sentiments, T’Challa’s quelling gaze is enough to stop him in his tracks. Instead, Steve nods at T’Challa to continue. “We need to find out who was behind the bombing and divine their motivation. I should think that for someone who prizes information as highly as you do, Mister Stark, you would value an investigation into who’s been trying to pull the wool over our eyes. It’s not something that I take idly, the fact that someone else was trying to get me to participate in their cover-up.”

Stark exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping like a puppet with cut strings. “Yeah, okay. I’ll wait. But only if it’s you and me doing that investigation, because I trust everyone else here about as far as I could throw them without my suit right now. I’m forty-six. It’s not very far.” He pauses, tilting his head. “I mean, Romanoff maybe, but I’d be scared to try.”

T’Challa nods serenely. “Sergeant Barnes can stay in Wakanda at least through the investigation. Is that acceptable?”

“For now,” Tony agrees, warily.

“I have a plane at the airport,” T’Challa says, still with a voice of complete authority. “I will escort him to it myself.”

“Guys,” Maria’s voice breaks into the main com channel. “I’m seeing a lot of strange movements on the radar out here in the air. I can hear it, too. It’s close.”

“I’m seeing a lot of heat signatures coming up on my ground radar too,” Hope warns, emphatically. “Guys, I think you gotta get out of there. There are headlights coming down the service road.”

“There are people on foot,” Scott adds. “I’m flying over the field right now. They’ve got night vision goggles and guns.”

“Tony…” Natasha says, instantly snapping into what Sam knows to be her Mission Voice. “Is there a reason why my sources are picking up on a small army headed straight for us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marvel: the UN will be in control of whether the Avengers take action via the Accords  
Defcontwo, former Model UN-er with an international relations degree, whispering softly into the void: Excuse Me What the Fuck.  
Dorasolo, a lawyer: because juries have never been wrong, Tony.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony forgets to mention a tiny little problem and now everybody has to deal with it; Rhodey arrives to make it better but it’s definitely not better; morons continue to be in love at the most inconvenient of times; a Giant Scott appears.

“Well, shit,” Stark says, with the decency to look the tiniest bit sheepish. “I was supposed to check in ten minutes ago and I didn’t, so guys, this is the cavalry. I’ll introduce you to the calvary later.” 

“Check in now,” Sam says dangerously through gritted teeth. “Check in fucking now.”

“It’s not that simple, Bird-Man,” Stark starts, but he’s cut off again.

“Now, Tony.” Clint has his bow drawn. “This isn’t funny. These are tanks and snipers. This is a whole goddamn army.”

“That’s Ross out there and he’s your standby, not Vision, not Rhodey. I’m disappointed in you,” Natasha says icily, the chill in her voice more threatening than Clint’s bow and arrow. 

“You know what?” Stark says, like it’s his own idea, suddenly snapping into action as his gaze flits between Natasha and Clint, “you’re right. I’ll check in now.”

He turns his back on the room to make a phone call. “Rhodey? The thing that I told you I was 100% sure about? ... yeah I’m maybe only 65%-70%, maybe 75% tops. Going to have to ask you stall for me.”

Sam can’t hear the exact words, but there is a lot of yelling coming from that phone. 

Finally, Stark clears his throat. “Well, uh. Rhodey will be here in a few. They’re on hold out there until Ross hears from Rhodey, so. Hey, good news, everyone, huh?” 

Natasha just gives Stark a steely glare that Sam is incredibly thankful to have never been on the receiving end of. 

Sam takes a few steps back out of range so that Stark won’t be able to hear him and taps at his ear to activate his comm-link. “Hey, Maria...you have a clear path to get Wanda out of here? Because I don’t like where this is going.” 

Across the hangar, Natasha gives him a subtle nod of agreement and Sam shoots her a grim smile. 

“I can get the two of us out of here,” Wanda says, her voice coming through small but sure. “Are you...I can stay to fight, if you need me to. I don’t want to just leave you all here.” 

At this, Steve turns away from Stark, all efforts at subtlety thrown out the window as he ducks his head behind Barnes’s back. “Hey Anne-Marie, it’s me…we’re okay here. You two get somewhere safe and we’ll follow when we can, alright?” 

It’s the right call because when push comes to shove, Wanda wouldn’t hear it coming from anyone other than Steve. 

A shaky breath comes through the comms and then Wanda clears her throat, like she’s steeling herself for whatever comes next. “Okay. I can...I can use my powers to uh, I guess it’s like teleportation? It takes a lot of effort so I won’t be good for much after but uh, that’s not going to matter much right now.” 

There’s a beat of silence, as Stark gives them all curious looks, a deep frown written into the lines of his face, and then Scott’s voice pipes up, “Dude, you can Apparate? Like Harry Potter! You are so cool!” 

Wanda lets out a laugh, bright and clear, that cuts through the tension in the room. “Yeah, it’s a little like Apparition. Better though, because I don’t need a wand to do it. Okay ...we're heading out now in 3...2...1…” 

There’s a thump and then a brief cracking sound on the roof, and then silence. 

Sam blows out a breath, and he can see Steve’s shoulders slump a little in relief. 

Stark points at the roof. “What the fuck was that all about? Are you all tuned into the same fucking frequency right now?” 

Natasha shrugs a shoulder. “Can you think of a good reason for Wanda to be here right now, in the middle of all this? Because I can’t. It’s Barnes you want to deal with and Rhodey will be here soon. This doesn’t need to get any more out of hand than it already has.” 

“So that’s a yes, you’re all tuned into the same fucking frequency right now,” Stark says with a scowl. “Anyone else out there that I need to know about? Is Bruce out there getting ready to stab me in the back too?” 

“Leave Hope out of this,” Scott warns, his voice tight. 

“Hey, I’m a big girl,” Hope argues, clearly ready to disagree with Scott’s sudden white knight outburst, but she sighs. “No, you’re right, Scott. You’ll need me on the outside, no need to announce I’m here. But if you’re going to keep me a secret, keep Scott a secret too. We’re your very small backup.” 

“And as backup it’s my job to tell you that standby literally means they’re standing by in the field, still armed. I still wouldn’t step outside,” Scott says, warily.

Clint scoffs in Stark’s direction. “Man, you know none of us knows where Bruce is these days.” 

“This is everyone,” Natasha lies smoothly. God, she’s good at that. “And considering that you brought a small army to our metaphorical doorstep, I would consider holding back on that outrage, Tony,” she finishes, just as coolly. 

Stark pulls a face at her, just as the hangar door pulls open with a small creak and Rhodey walks in with his War Machine armor on. Rhodey flips the face plate up and turns to give the entire storage hangar a deeply unimpressed glare. 

“I gotta get some less high maintenance people in my life.” The annoyance is thick in Rhodey’s tone, even to someone like Sam who doesn’t know him all that well. “Because this shit is getting ridiculous.” Here, Rhodey turns to Tony. “Alright, man, what’s the deal?” 

T’Challa steps forward. “I have analyzed the video of Sergeant Barnes at the United Nations Summit and it is a fake. Somebody is trying to frame the Sergeant for the death of my father.” 

“Have we verified the video is fake?” Rhodey looks like he’d be rubbing his forehead if he didn’t have a metal war suit on and Sam feels that sentiment in his bones. 

“Yes,” Sam says, shooting a quick glare at Clint in hopes that Clint will get the message not to complain about the source of the verification being a felon again. Clint doesn’t even open his mouth to try, and Sam makes a mental note to congratulate Barton on his personal growth if they make it out of this unscathed. 

Rhodey blinks several times and then does a full body eye roll, an action made more grandiose in his War Machine suit. “Tony, you called in the entire Army and you were _wrong_? Tony, we talked about this.” 

Stark shrugs. “Yeah well,” he says noncommittally. “For future reference, Rhodey is the _only_ person who gets to tell me I’m wrong. And maybe Romanoff. Maybe.” 

Ignoring Stark, Rhodey addresses the group at large. “So we have a conspiracy. Again,” he groans, shaking his head like he’s being personally punished by a higher power. “Do we have a safe place for Barnes?”

“Yes, I will escort him to Wakanda myself,” T’Challa answers. 

“And you’re alright with this, Barnes?” Rhodey asks. 

Barnes exchanges a long look with Steve before turning to T’Challa. “I know that I’m not exactly in a position to make demands over here, your Highness, but...Steve will be able to follow me there later, right?” 

At this, T’Challa looks amused. “Of course. I had assumed that you two are...what’s that American phrase, a package deal?” 

“My Ma would’ve said something similar,” Steve agrees, the relief tangible in his voice. 

Barnes turns back towards Rhodey and nods. “Then yeah, I’m fine with it. Thank you, Commander...for, uh, checking.” 

Rhodey nods and flips on his comm system. “General Ross, this is Commander Rhodes, come in.” 

“Commander, what is your status?” Ross’s voice is curt and commanding over the radio, and it seems louder to Sam in the silence of the hangar than any other radio transmission.

“General, I am in receipt of verified Wakandan intelligence that the video feed of Sergeant Barnes is a hoax,” Rhodey reports, indicating to T'Challa not to speak. “They do not have a lead on a perpetrator at this time, though it is my understanding that they have a task force on finding the responsible party.” 

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Ross’s voice again. “Be that as it may, Commander, it is still within the authority of this Committee on Enhanced Individuals to detain the individuals while the investigation into unlawful activity is pending.” 

“Yes sir, and as part of the committee, the Wakandan government has offered to keep Sergeant Barnes in custody for the duration of the investigation,” Rhodes replies, with a small furrow of his brow, and a hand raised in Steve’s direction when he appears ready to argue at the suggestion of custody.

“Seeing as how there’s no delegation from Wakanda here tonight,” Ross says smoothly, “I think it might be best if we take the Assets into our custody now.” 

“Just to be clear, sir,” Rhodey says, with little more than just that furrowed brow outwardly indicating his displeasure but Sam knows he’s deeply displeased, “there is only Sergeant Barnes in this hangar. Who is the other Asset you’re speaking about?” 

“Maximoff, of course,” Ross answers, exasperated. “We would be taking custody of both super powered Assets tonight.” 

“For a trial, sir?” Stark cuts in, a weird and inexplicable note of hope in his voice. “A trial for Barnes, of course. Sokovia was obviously an accident, and even if it wasn’t, Maximoff is a child.” 

“They are Assets,” Ross answers, dismissively. “Assets are merely weapons, Stark, they have no age.” 

Stark looks sick for the first time of the night, like somebody yanked the rug out from underneath him and now he’s in a free fall from space. Sam could just about kick him in the mouth for raining down this kind of trouble on everybody, but that won’t do any good now that they’re in it up to their necks. Clint cracks his back audibly and restrings his bow.

And Barnes — Barnes just looks resigned, weariness written into the lines of his face. He knew it would come to this. Hell, of course he did. He’s been someone’s Asset for longer than all of them have been alive. Sam feels a sudden surge of anger on his behalf, swift and sure, and it takes him by surprise. 

“Maximoff is not here, General,” Rhodey repeats. “Just Barnes. I’m asking you to order a stand down so that Barnes can go into Wakandan custody. I’ll accompany him myself.” 

“No, Commander. You’ll provide Barnes peacefully,” Ross orders, “or we’ll be forced to take action.” 

“And if we were to surrender Barnes peacefully,” Rhodey begins again, waving off Steve, and making a ‘calm down’ motion at everybody else, “do we have your assurance that you’ll stand down and let everybody else go?” 

Ross laughs harshly, and a cold feeling of dread rolls down Sam’s back. “Of course not. That’s not how this works. The way I see it, if Barnes isn’t returned to our custody, anybody who isn’t you or Stark will be actively aiding and abetting a known terrorist to escape. It’s your move, Commander. You have ten minutes.” 

Steve doesn’t waste any time. “T’Challa, do you have the means to take Bucky and get out of here safely?” 

T’Challa taps a bead on the bracelet around his wrist and all of a sudden, a dynamic black material that looks like liquid armor starts crawling across his chest until T’Challa is standing there in a fully black armored tac-suit. With cat ears. 

“Uhhhh, what?” Sam says in the general direction of T’Challa, and T’Challa spares him a small grin before turning to face Steve. 

“Wakandan technology far surpasses anything the United States Army is capable of,” T’Challa says. “So yes, I can get Sergeant Barnes out of here safely. I have a plane waiting just outside this hangar.” 

“Uhhh...hold up,” Rhodey says, raising a hand. “I did not see any plane on my way here.” 

Again, T’Challa just smirks. “Like I said. Wakandan technology. Sergeant Barnes, shall we?” 

Barnes doesn’t answer. He’s staring at Steve, and if this moment was any less serious, Sam would definitely be making fun of them and their star-crossed bullshit. 

“Buck, you gotta get out of here,” Steve says, pitching his voice low. “I remember what you said. About how you’d rather die than be…that again.” 

“Yeah, but I’m not seeing a good reason for why you can’t just come with me,” Barnes murmurs. 

“I gotta stay behind to sort this out or else Ross is never gonna stop, Buck, you know that.” Steve says, pleading. “But right now, you have to go.” 

“Steve, c’mon...” Barnes clears his throat, and Sam can see the exact moment when he’s made up his mind. Barnes takes a step forward and before Sam can so much as throw up a Do Not Disturb sign in front of them, Barnes is cupping Steve’s jaw with one hand and pressing a light kiss to Steve’s lips. “Just don’t do anything stupid after I leave, alright?” 

Steve cracks a watery smile. “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” 

Barnes nudges Steve lightly in the shoulder and then takes a step back and away from him. “Alright, your Highness, let’s see this magic future plane of yours.” 

Stark stands gawking in the hangar, jaw slack, his eyes darting back and forth between Steve and Barnes. “What just happened? What am I seeing?”

“Slow on the uptake, Tony,” Clint says, smirking. 

“I don’t want to know what just happened in there,”  
Scott interrupts cheerfully, “but you’re going to need cover. Lots of it. I hope everybody has suits because otherwise it’s just me and I’m not sure what the odds are but I have a bad feeling about this.” 

Hope echoes his sentiments, if not his jumbled movie quotes. “Come out swinging,” she directs. 

“I don’t want to have to do this, but I have to do this,” Sam says, clearing his throat, not bothering to look sorry or apologize out loud. “Whose side are you on?” 

Stark scoffs. “As if you have to ask.” 

Natasha and Clint shoot glances at each other, and Clint nods to the quiver of arrows strapped to his back. Natasha smiles, but her smile is anything but friendly. “We do have to ask, Tony. Are you with us or does Clint need to knock you out?”

Rhodey makes a face. “I really hope it hasn’t gotten this bad,” he says blandly, because obviously it has. 

“Your side, come on,” Tony says, sounding wounded, like he’s not the one who used Ross and Ross’s makeshift military as backup. “Let’s get them out of here.” He presses a few buttons on his arm and he’s Iron Man. 

Steve draws himself up. “Alright, team. We need a plan of attack.” 

“It would’ve been nice if I had my bird suit,” Sam whines, and Natasha puffs out a laugh. 

“Good thing I stashed this bag full of tac-gear just outside the hangar,” Natasha says, rooting around in a storage crate before plucking something out of it and then tossing a big black duffle in Sam’s direction. 

Sam tears it open to find his suit and Steve’s, as well as the shield and some other weaponry. Sam digs out a handgun, sticking it in his holster, and then grabs a couple of AR-15s, handing one back to Barnes. 

Sam takes a step back, assessing their crew with a tactician’s gaze. Two super soldiers, two spies, a dumbass millionaire, two tiny civilians, and one of the finest airmen that Sam’s ever known. 

Sam’s seen worse; he’s also seen better. 

They are wildly outgunned for this battle but they step out into the night, anyways. 

Just like Rhodey said, there’s not a plane in sight. Or at least there isn’t until T’Challa presses another button on his bracelet and a small fighter jet shimmers into existence. 

Beyond the Wakandan jet, there’s several tanks and Hum-Vs and what looks to be about a couple hundred soldiers. Marines, Sam guesses, from the uniforms that he can barely make out in the dark. 

A flare goes up into the air and then a second later, there’s a shot fired in their direction. 

Sam steps up to Steve’s side, with Natasha coming up to stand on Steve’s other side. “So, boys...I’ll take the hundred on the right, you two split up the other two hundred?” 

“What am I, chopped liver?” Clint cracks. 

“You can shoot a couple of arrows at the tanks, see how that goes,” Sam says, with a smirking glance back at Clint. Clint calmly flips him the finger, and then points his arrows at the ground troops. 

There’s the sharp whistle of a missile getting fired, and then a second later, half of the hangar roof behind them goes up in flames. 

Stark and Rhodey take to the air, with Stark sending a shot back towards one of the approaching tanks, and it explodes just to the left of the tank, tipping it over. 

“Okay, Bucky and T'Challa need cover, we gotta distract ‘em long enough that the two of them can get away,” Steve orders, already swinging his shield in the direction of a gun on top of another tank, taking it out and then boomeranging right back into Steve’s hand. 

Sam sends out some suppressing fire in the direction of one of the Hum-Vs, while Natasha takes out another Hum-V’s tires. 

But then men in dark gear start spilling out of their vehicles and taking them at a run, guns in hand, and Sam already knows that this is gonna get out of hand real quick. 

“I should help them,” Sam hears Scott tell Hope over the com link. 

“Yeah, it’s time,” Hope agrees. “But don’t do anything stupid.”

“Can’t make you that promise,” Scott jokes. 

“If you’re finished flirting, any time you’d like to join would be great!” Sam yells into his mouthpiece. 

“Already there with you,” Scott yells back, and in the flickering lights of the artillery shots, spotlights and flashlights, Sam can see him appear and disappear as he navigates the ground troops in between regular and miniature size. 

Barnes and T’Challa break out into a sprint, making for the jet, but they’re stalled by the continuing firepower from the ground troops as well as what appears to be shots from the air. 

“We need more cover,” T’Challa yells. 

“We’re trying,” Clint yells back. 

“Try harder,” Barnes demands, as he fends off part of the ground attack. 

Scott’s voice breaks through again. “I have an idea, but it’s big and it’s stupid,” he warns.

“Scott, this never works,” Hope argues. “You’ll give them twenty seconds at best!”

“I’m going to have to try,” Scott insists. “If this works, it’ll get them out of here. So I’m going for it. And this is probably the worst time to tell you, it’s so incredibly cliched, but I don’t want to die without telling you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam groans through the shots he’s firing.

“Excuse me, do you mind? Rude! Anyway, Hope,” Scott yells, “I love you, Hope!”

Before Hope can reply, Scott is suddenly absurdly large, the height of a building, and he has a plane that had been firing on them in his hand. “Gotcha,” Scott crows, and his voice is so loud that everybody winces. He flings the plane away and catches another one like he’s showing off. But, his giant size does the job and creates the distraction they need. 

A door on the Wakandan jet opens and then Barnes and T'Challa disappear into it. True to T’Challa’s word, his jet is fast and bulletproof — they’re rising into the air in seconds and then speeding further and further away, until the jet is a tiny speck in the distance. Not a single shot or missile sent in the direction of the jet manages to get anywhere near it. 

Next to Sam, Steve lets out a sigh of relief. It’s a little premature though, because a giant Scott crashes to the ground a second later, shaking the Earth, completely unconscious. 

“Get out of here,” Clint screams at Natasha as he’s backing into a wall. “We’re going to need you to get us out of this because we are 100% screwed now!” 

Natasha takes a look around at how completely surrounded they are, and blows out a breath. “I’m gonna need a lift out of here.” 

A second later, Rhodey is picking her up and taking off. “I’ll be right back,” Rhodey shouts down from the air. 

Stark lands next to Sam and Steve, retracting the face plate. “So what do we do now?” 

Steve drops his shield to his side. “Now, we surrender.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! If you’re in the mood to distract yourself from current troubling events in the world, how about a comment or two?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five losers on a boat in desperate need of legal representation, if interested, please call Hazel Van Der Woodsen!
> 
> Or: Scott, Sam, Tony, Clint, and Steve talk secrets on the Raft while Hope and Natasha figure out how to rescue their dumbasses.

The day dawns, bright and painful in fluorescent light. Scott opens one eye and grimaces. “Fuck,” he moans, as the familiar stabbing pain of a migraine greets him behind his eyes. He reaches for the glass of water he normally leaves on his bedside table but there is no table, no water, no headache medicine, and no Hope to talk him through it.

Scott rolls to his side and opens both eyes. He’s on a spartan cot with rough white sheets, and there’s a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There are metal bars, a metal toilet in the corner, and his mouth tastes like an absolute trash can. So. He’s managed to find himself in a fucking prison once again. “Fuck,” he groans, much louder this time. “Fuck,” he says again, drawing out the word into a multisyllabic monstrosity, this time with feeling. 

He stumbles five feet to the bars and blearily surveys his surroundings; it’s a circular room full of holding cells. Scott dimly remembers growing to Giant size in hopes of giving Barnes a chance to get out, and he has no clue if it had worked because he’s been unconscious ever since the attempt. But, his cell is across from Captain America, who’s sitting slumped next to his own set of bars, so he can ask. “Hey Cap, did it work?”

“Yeah, it worked. Buck, he...I mean, they did, they got out,” Cap says, with a small, wan smile. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at his hands, but he raises his head to meet Scott’s gaze, giving him a nod across the weird circular expanse. “Thank you, Scott. I mean it.”

“That’s great,” Scott answers, mostly sincere, but then he drops his head in his hands too. Going Giant in practice has usually meant a really rough morning, at least until he’s eaten, and one hell of a headache. The headache is there, as well as some mild nausea, so being back in prison is just shit ice cream on a shit cake. 

“I don’t suppose you have any bobby pins in there with you,” Sam calls out, obviously trying to cheer Scott up. From what Scott can tell, he is across the circle and a bit to the left, next to Cap. 

“Nah, you know I cut it out with the French braid a little while back,” Barton’s voice drawls from the next cell over, to the right of Scott. 

Scott rolls his eyes. “That was from a joke that didn’t involve you,” he says at Barton, testily, but turns his attention to Sam. “And even if I did have pins, these locks aren’t standard issue so I can’t even use them. These cells are made to hold superheroes and they’re all locked by some sort of magnetic device.” 

“You’re right,” Stark sighs, sounding dismayed. “I built them. They’re computerized.” 

“Can we shut down the computer and reboot the system to give us a window to get out?” Scott can’t help the wishful note that is creeping into his voice. Maybe it is this simple to leave. Maybe it’s Isla Nublar and they’re going to get the fuck out after a T-Rex saves their asses from the raptors.

“No can do, Thumbelina, sorry. There are backups of the backups, it’s failsafe.” Stark sounds annoyed with himself, which given the shit pile of a situation that he’s in, Scott figures he deserves it. 

Barton scoffs. “That’s the best you can do? You’re the reason we’re in this mess, from every fucking angle I can think of.” 

“Hey,” Stark says, sounding wounded again, “I helped when it counted, didn’t I? T’Challa has Barnes. And instead of waking up in my hotel bed, I’m here on The Raft, with you guys. It’s disgusting, we haven’t been fed, and it smells like foot sweat, but I’m here.” 

“Well, I mean, it is a prison,” Scott snarks, “and prison is not known for its good smells.” 

“Yeah, have a fucking medal for your presence,” Barton sneers, and for once, Scott agrees with Barton. 

“We’re on the Raft?! They were going to keep supes on the goddamn Raft for violating the Accords? That’s a pretty disgusting secret to keep,” Sam accuses, coming up to the bars in his cell to glare in the direction of what Scott presumes is Stark’s cell, next to Barton’s. 

“Well, it looks like we all had secrets,” Stark tosses back smugly, and to Scott, Stark is way too smug for a guy stuck sitting in a prison that he helped build. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam says, screwing up his face in anger. 

“I think that one’s directed at me,” Cap says, voice as dry as can be. “Really, we’re gonna do this here? Now?” 

“When did I get to find out that Captain America is gay and likes to go around locking lips with murderous assassins, huh?” Stark pulls himself to his feet to lean against the bars, crossing both arms over his chest. He peers at Cap through the bars like he’s a rubbernecker eye-balling a massive car crash. “Did you tell everybody about that at a sleepover I didn’t get an invite to?” 

“I do not want to be a part of this,” Barton interjects, “so can we just maybe do this when we’re not in jail?” 

As usual, everybody ignores Barton. 

“I’m not gay, I’m — never mind, I’m not having the bisexuality talk with you in an underwater prison.” Cap visibly rolls his eyes, which honestly just makes Scott like him even more. “It was none of your business, Tony. And it wasn’t exactly relevant to the Avengers.” 

“Three PhDs and he’s never heard of the Kinsey Scale,” Sam mutters, barely audible across the Raft. 

“The what?” Tony asks, bewildered. “Of course it’s relevant, your love life involves the man who killed my parents. I thought it was a nostalgia thing but this is, this is…”

“Still not really your business?” Cap quirks an eyebrow. “I know I’m a little old fashioned but last I checked, people still like to keep their personal lives personal.” 

Scott interrupts the conversation, vicariously embarrassed by how awkward things are about to get if he doesn’t do something to end it. “Hey, General,” he jokes, pretending to call the attention of Ross, “can I please have the death penalty? Immediately? So I can avoid hearing whatever this is?”

Cap huffs out a laugh. “That feels a little extreme, Scott.” He nods sharply in Scott’s direction. Message received. 

“Fine, there are other secrets we can talk about,” Stark says, clearly still itching for an argument. “Like Thumbelina being here.” Stark jerks his thumb in Scott’s direction and Scott gives a little sarcastic wave in response. 

“What, I’m not allowed to make new friends?” Sam asks, voice deceptively mild. 

“For your information, Sam asked me to be backup, just in case things with you went to shit. And since you brought a small army down on us, man, guess what? Things went to shit,” Scott rants, pointing a finger at Stark. “That was so uncool.” 

Stark blinks and asks dismissively, “Who are you again?” 

This just rankles, because Scott knows damn well that Stark knows who he is. And he already feels like garbage because his blood sugar is dangerously low after his excursion as Giant Man. 

“If you knew enough to call him Thumbelina, then you know who he is,” Sam argues instead, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at Scott. “I don’t know why you have to be like this all of the time. It’s not ‘Tony Stark and the Avengers,’ last I checked.”

“Okay, enough,” Cap says, breaking in. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here but it’s gonna feel a hell of a lot longer if we’re at each other’s throats the whole damn time.” 

The five of them sit in stony silence for an indeterminate time until a similarly silent team of uniformed officers arrive with a spartan meal of peanut butter sandwiches, grapes, and paper boxes of summer camp-style orange drink. Scott eats his gratefully, still wishing for medicine for his headache, but he keeps that to himself. When they’re almost finished eating, Ross himself enters the circle. He ignores all of the occupants except for Stark, beckoning him to the front of the cell.

Ross speaks in a low voice, but the circle is so quiet that Scott can hear Barton chew his sandwich in the next cell, so of course he can hear Ross just fine too. “I figured a night here at the Raft might have cooled you down, Stark. I know you wouldn’t go against my orders without good reason. Feel like sharing why you let the Asset go to Wakanda? Any idea how difficult it’ll be to negotiate his release into our custody from there?”

Must be nice to have the benefit of the doubt. 

Stark shrugs in that insouciant way of his that he always turns to when he’s being purposefully glib. “It’s T’Challa’s father who was killed, so it’s his right to have Barnes in Wakanda pending the investigation. He’s not going anywhere.” 

“That’s the problem, Tony,” Ross grumbles. “You know we wanted him, hell, _you_ wanted him.” 

Stark shrugs again. “I know where he is, and I’m satisfied with that.” 

Ross nods. “When we get the results of that investigation, I expect your cooperation,” he warns.

Stark smirks. “If the investigation turns out the way you expect it to, I will happily cooperate,” he says, and there’s nothing special about what he’s saying, but what he’s not saying speaks volumes. Scott, at least, is convinced that Stark doesn’t expect it to hurt Barnes anymore. 

And then Ross does the unexpected: he opens Stark’s cell, claps him on the back, and starts walking him out. “We’ll chalk this up to a misunderstanding and call it even, eh Tony?” 

“Sure, General, whatever you say,” Stark agrees hurriedly, with a worried look around and behind him, at the rest of them. “What about these guys?”

Ross scoffs and then smiles maliciously, “They wanted to hide him. They’re still on the hook for aiding and abetting a terrorist. Let’s get out of here Stark, unless any of you other gentlemen want to negotiate a guilty plea first?” 

“No thanks,” Scott says vehemently. “I’m not doing anything without a lawyer.” 

“What he said,” Sam agrees, making an awful face at the General. “I don’t plan on being framed for something I didn’t do.” 

“Couldn’t look my wife in the face if I just let you have this one, General,” Barton says. 

“No,” Cap speaks slowly, drawing out the syllables while he looks Ross dead in the eyes. “I don’t think I will.” 

“Suit yourselves,” Ross says, attempting to look nonchalant but his neck is red with anger and Scott can tell he’s sweating in his heavy wool military dress suit. He ushers Stark out in front of him so Stark can’t even look back and make eye contact. Scott can only hope that Stark is decent enough to help Hope and Natasha work something out from the outside.

“I cannot believe they just let him out,” Scott says incredulously, with as little enthusiasm as he can muster once the door locks jolt back into place. 

“I can,” Sam points out, darkly. “Rich white dude.”

“Touché,” Scott says, tipping his imaginary hat.

“There has to be some way out of here,” Barton muses. “If not through a literal break out, which seems so unlikely, maybe through some kind of actual plea deal. I hope Natasha has a plan…” 

At this, a small smirk crosses Cap’s face. “It’s Natasha. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that she _always_ has a plan.” 

***

“We need to get them lawyers,” Hope declares, taking a sip of scalding hot coffee, her main source of sustenance in the last twelve hours, much to her stomach’s dismay. Though she’s dressed comfortably and stylishly in yoga pants and a tailored hoodie, she feels sloppy and unmoored from her surroundings. 

They’re back at the Marriott in Vienna, and there are plates of food brought by room service untouched in the corner. Hope makes a valiant effort to nibble at a banana, hearing Scott’s voice in her head reminding her to eat even if she feels like puking from all of her stress. “Any idea of who to call, Natasha?” 

Natasha somehow finds a way to look impeccably put together in black and grey sweats, with her dark red hair in a neat braid down her back and a mottled bruise healing on her cheek, as she clutches a large coffee cup of her own. Natasha taps the lid of her cup against her lips, clearly mulling it over, before taking another sip. “Well, Steve went on a couple of dates with a defense attorney a while back. This was...before we moved to DC, I guess, so not long after the Battle of New York....shit, what was her name again?” Natasha clicks her tongue, as it comes to her. “Bernadette Rosenthal. Goes by Bernie. I did a little background check, just in case...I remember that she was very, _very_ good at her job.” 

“That’s one,” Hope says absently, writing down the name. “Give her a call. I’ll call around and see who else is interested.”

“Oh, also,” Natasha says, snapping her fingers. “Sam met some other superpowered people while doing recon to try and feel out how other supes might swing with the Accords. I think one is a superpowered PI, her last name is Jones. She has to know a lawyer or two who would want to handle something like this. I’ll contact her.”

“One of my investors suggested Jeri Hogarth if I had any legal needs, and she has a reputation for being ruthless,” Hope muses, “I’ll give her a call.” 

“An associate of mine mentioned this defense lawyer out in San Francisco… Anne Waters, maybe?” Here, Natasha’s memory seems to fail her, but her words tweak something in Hope’s caffeine-fueled brain. 

“Do you mean Anne Weying?” Hope asks. “I’ve met her a few times at networking events. You’re right, she would definitely do it.” 

“Well, then,” Natasha drawls, cracking her knuckles with a pleased smile. “Assuming Sam’s grumpy PI works out, we’re well on our way to having all of our lawyers sorted.” 

An hour later, though, and things are not quite finished. Rosenthal has agreed to represent Rogers, and the law firm of Nelson and Murdoch has taken the case for Sam. Hope has called Jeri Hogarth at the direction of Danny Rand, and while Hogarth seems incredibly competent and is willing to help, her base fee is exorbitant (“I don’t come cheap or easy, Ms. Van Dyne”) and Hope can’t shake the feeling that Scott would hate having somebody like her as his lawyer. When her phone call to Hank results in a second recommendation to call Anne Weying, Hope hires her for Scott. 

All that’s left is a lawyer for Clint, and they’re back to the drawing board. Hope is just about to suggest taking fifteen minutes to stretch their legs when there’s a knock on the door. Cautiously, Hope picks up her gun and approaches the peephole in the door. 

“It’s Stark and Rhodes,” she says, surprised. “Should I open it?” 

Natasha’s hand goes to the gun at her hip. She nods, just once. “Go ahead.” 

Hope opens the door and levels the gun at them. “Go on, now’s the time to get inside if you’re going to,” she orders, and Rhodey stifles a smile as they walk through. 

“Ooh are you in trouble,” Rhodey comments to Tony, shaking his head. “Alright, go ahead and let him have it, so he can grovel, and then give you the money he thinks will start to make this better.” 

“Thanks to you, my boyfriend is in a mysterious government prison right now, bunking with Captain America, the Falcon, and some guy with a bow and arrow.” Hope keeps her voice perfectly even. “Are you here to help or are you here to make things worse?” 

“If you’re here to make things worse,” Natasha starts conversationionally, lifting her gun from her hip and aiming it just to the left of Tony. “I’ll remind you that I know all of the places where a guy can get shot and still live through it.” 

“Woah, okay, hold up now, Thelma and Louise, I come in peace.” Tony holds both hands up in surrender. 

Hope sweeps a critical gaze over him; his hair is wet, like he just got out of a shower, and he’s in a freshly laundered Tom Ford suit. Still, he does have a nasty cut healing on his jaw, deep bruises pressed into the thin skin beneath his eyes, with the wrinkles around his mouth tugging downwards into a small, unhappy frown. 

“You look like shit, Tony,” Hope declares, because apparently Scott’s lack of brain-to-mouth filter is rubbing off on her. “Rough night?” 

Tony exhales hard. “Yeah, I slept on a cot in an underwater prison that I definitely thought met humane condition standards until I had to spend the night there myself.” 

Rhodey glances at Tony askance, rolling his eyes. Hope has only met the guy a few times but he instantly ratchets up about ten levels in her esteem. 

Still, Hope doesn’t think pointing a gun at Tony is gonna get them anywhere right this second, so she lowers it, placing her glock on top of the dark wooden dresser. 

Natahsa, on the other hand, doesn’t move a muscle, with her own beretta still in place. 

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, Romanoff, please stop giving me that look with your dead assassin eyes.” Tony takes another step forward, still with his hands up. “Ross seemed like a decent enough guy until he tried to go all Grand Moff Tarkin on a nineteen year old kid. So I was wrong, okay? I was wrong.” 

Natasha drops her gun to the table, apparently satisfied enough with that. “We’ve arranged legal representation for just about everyone. Steve’s got someone, Sam’s got someone, and Scott’s got someone. Which just leaves Clint and since I like being invited to Laura Barton’s Christmas dinner, I’m hoping that you have some ideas.” 

Rhodey looks at Tony quizzically. “What about…”

“Jennifer Walters,” Tony responds, immediately, snapping his fingers. “Bruce’s cousin. I had her support on the Accords but now I don’t even have my support on the Accords. That’s neither here nor there, but she’s a great attorney, and she’s been representing supes in a lot of discrimination cases headed toward the Supreme Court so she’s definitely experienced. I’ll call her.” 

He does, and Walters is in. The lawyer has reassured Tony that she’ll coordinate a legal attack in the form of paper filings immediately with the other lawyers. She seems like a competent woman so Hope breathes a small sigh of relief. 

“She’s green skinned,” Rhodey adds, matter of factly. “Makes a real impact. Just in case you meet her.” 

“Noted,” Hope says, smiling, but then she turns serious. “So, Tony… Where is the Raft?” 

“Smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic.” Tony drops down into the hotel room couch with a heavy thump. “There are U.S. Marshals running it but it seems like they’re all personally hand-picked by Ross. I had FRIDAY run some tests and it turns out that they’ve got the damn thing registered under the Marshall Islands like it’s the world’s worst prison chic cruise ship.” 

“Well, that makes zero jurisdictional sense.” Natasha murmurs, mostly to herself. “But it does a good job at burying the whole thing and making sure that the fingers get pointed at no one. Tony, you’ve got the coordinates, though, right?” Now that they’re back in planning mode, she’s back to mainlining coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. 

“Of course,” Tony says airily, screwing up his nose in disdain. “The second they handed back my watch, I had a lock on the location.” 

“A prison break-out has got to be the worst case scenario here,” Rhodey points out. “Plan Z, if we can help it.” 

“Plan A is we get our lawyers together to bury Ross in paperwork,” Hope says. “He doesn’t strike me as the type of man who’s used to getting pushback. That could work to our advantage.” 

“I can go back,” Tony offers, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that Hope recognizes from when they were children. He feels bad and wants to make it better. She’s going to let him do both.

“What will you do when you go back?” Hope crosses her arms and looks at him expectantly.

“I’ll check in after we hear that the papers are filed, see how mad he is, suggest that the only way to satisfy everybody is to let everybody go, and then see what happens?” Tony shrugs. “Something like that, worth a shot.”

“And you think that’ll just… work out?” Hope’s eyebrow raises into her bangs. 

“Cut it out with the disbelieving eyebrow,” Tony chides. “I’m sure Lang thinks it’s great when you yell at him, but I feel like an underperforming schoolboy with a really mean teacher. Just let me try, ok?” 

“You go try,” Natasha cuts in, “and in the meantime, we’ll work out a tentative Plan B if necessary. Rhodey, you’ll go with?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Rhodey affirms. 

Natasha nods approvingly before turning to toss a conspiratorial grin in Hope’s direction. “You ready to go break our losers out of prison?” 

Hope can’t help but feel a small burst of excitement at the idea of getting Scott out of prison. But first, she smiles at just the thought of a solid, well-made plan or two. Hope could get used to this whole superhero team business, if having a team means plotting with someone like Natasha once she has her Wasp suit. “Let’s get it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> User Dorasolo, a lawyer, addresses her enormous pet peeve that somehow Scott and Clint take a terrible plea deal without lawyers... or charged crimes. 
> 
> Come for the plot, stay for the superhero lawyer cameos!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A leaked video, a protest, and a no nonsense New York City judge. The Accords are on trial and in the immortal words of Sharon Carter*, hold onto your butts. Maybe not the courtroom drama you need, but the courtroom drama you deserve.

They’re getting off the highway on the east side of Manhattan, making their way toward the courthouse, snaking their way slowly through Chinatown, when Hope first hears the crowd. “No justice, no peace!” is the rallying cry she hears first, followed up by a resounding “let them go!”

By the time they pull up at the federal courthouse in downtown Manhattan, it’s reached a fever pitch.

“What do we want?”  
“Due process!”  
“When do we want it?”  
“Now!” 

Out of all of the things Hope prepared for in the meticulous plans with Natasha, the crowd and the noise were not part of it. Natasha’s smirking, looking entirely unsurprised; this isn’t her first high profile court date in the past two years. 

Hope pauses with one hand on the handle to open her car door, taking a second to scan the crowd. Signs of all sizes on varying colors of poster board demand due process and freedom for the four who have been dubbed “Team Cap” by the media. A whole slew of people of all ages and races are chanting for their release from custody. There’s a large contingency of men and women in off the rack business suits chanting along with the crowd, taking time from whatever it is they do for a day job to join into the protest. Some of them are holding up signs emblazoned with local public defender organization logos reminding everybody that superhumans are still just humans, and they’re deserving of Constitutional rights. 

There’s an organizer with the logo of a local human rights group printed across her t-shirt in bright colors standing just off to the side of the steps, holding up a megaphone as she leads the crowd in round after round of protest chants, that stands out to Hope. The early morning wind doesn’t touch her brightly colored head scarf at all and neither does the wary looks getting sent her way by the police. She’s not a superhero, she’s not anyone on Hope’s personal list of potential allies; neither is anyone else in the crowd of protesters, as far as Hope knows. They’re just regular people. Strangers who believe in what Hope and Natasha are trying to make happen here. 

There’s some counter protestors, sure, but they’re outnumbered. She’s guessing General Ross didn’t expect that people would think he is wrong. Well. This is Cap’s hometown, after all. She snaps several pictures of the signs she can see that reference Ant-Man directly; Scott will get a real kick out of having fans.

Hope smiles wanly at Natasha, seated across from her in the showy black SUV Sharon arranged to take them to court. “It’s showtime.” 

***  
_ Twenty four hours earlier _

It feels a little surreal and crazy to wind up back in Sam Wilson’s apartment without him, but Natasha has a key and they’re due down at the Manhattan courthouse tomorrow morning, so here they are. A CIA agent, a former spy, and Hope, sitting huddled into an overstuffed grey sectional while they work together to get some very tricky tech set up. 

After Tony’s Plan A attempt to just ask Ross to release everybody pending further investigation failed spectacularly, they were gifted an opportunity for a risky but potentially incredibly effective Plan B. The Wakandan investigations bureau came through with video of the bombing, but all the team will say over the phone is that the bomber is clearly not Sergeant Barnes.

Eagerly, they set up the tech, even if their attempt is a little bit bumbling — Hope reminds herself to tell Scott how much she appreciates his eclectic set of technological skills if she gets him out of jail. _When_ she gets him out of jail. The video takes a moment to download through the VPN and all of the other encryptions that the Wakandan team set up, but after another couple of long minutes, the video and its required video player are finally up and running. 

“Well?” T’Challa’s voice is tinny through the speakers of the phone because he’s standing just a bit too far away for his musical lilt to come through. “Shuri went through a lot of video feeds to find this and I think it is most telling.”

“I’m very tired but it was worth it,” a young woman's voice says, coming through a little clearer. She must be Shuri and it’s a surprise how young she sounds. And how cheerful, despite the circumstances. “Please tell me that you have decided to let me leak it on the internet,” Shuri continues, mischief in her voice. “I liked that move you pulled with SHIELD, Black Widow. Very clever.” 

“Thanks, I try,” Natasha says dryly, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard as she enters the final required passcode and then presses play. 

“Hold onto your butts,” Sharon murmurs, before Natasha elbows her in the side. 

Hope’s eyes widen as the video unfolds before them. She believed in Barnes’s innocence before but it’s another thing entirely to see the evidence laid out before her, with security camera footage of a middle aged white man with brown hair and brown eyes, a man who looks nothing like Sergeant Barnes at all, setting up the bomb and rigging it to blow. 

Hope reaches out, pressing pause on the man’s face. “Who is he?” 

Here, T’Challa speaks up. “His name is Helmut Zemo. His grandfather was a Nazi collaborator, once upon a time, which I thought might be the motive until I found out that his wife and son were both killed in Sokovia. I imagine you can guess how.” 

“Fuck,” Natasha says, pressing her lips tight together with rage. “Fuck, _fuck_.” 

Sharon drags one hand through her hair. “Alright, do we have a location on him?” 

“Not yet,” Shuri pipes up. “We have all our tech triangulated to his profile but right now, he’s a ghost.” 

“So let’s kill two birds with one stone,” Hope suggests. “Release the video to flush him out and give the guys a better chance in court at the same time.” 

“You cannot see my sister,” T’Challa says, with a weary sigh, “but you should know that she just did a fist pump into the air.” 

Natasha smothers a grin. “Alright, let’s get all our lawyers on the phone, we have to give them a head’s up before we do this.” 

Ten minutes and a brief session of histrionics from Matt Murdock later, everyone’s in. Well, as much as a Catholic lawyer that thinks like a boy scout can be in, Hope guesses. 

“You think Murdock will cause a stink?” Hope asks, sinking back into the plush pillows of Sam’s couch. “He really didn’t seem thrilled.” 

Natasha cracks her knuckles, and then gets straight to pulling up the video and getting ready to send it out. “From what Sam has told me, where Nelson goes, Murdock will follow. And Nelson wants to do this. He says he wants the chance to represent the real good guys.” 

Hope quirks an eyebrow. “Nelson doesn’t like being a defense attorney, then?”

Sharon shakes her head. “It’s not that. He seems smart, and the word is that he’s good with his clients. I think the Punisher’s trial loss left a bad taste in his mouth. They really would have won it if the Punisher didn’t confess to the whole thing on the stand.”

Hope whistles low, shaking her head. “I forgot all about that headline. I can see why Sam Wilson would be an easier client for Nelson than the Punisher. Speaking of headlines, though, I think we should leak this to the media too.” 

“I’m ahead of you on that front. I made a point to cozy up to the reporter that covered the Punisher trial.” Sharon kicks her feet up onto Sam’s coffee table, as she swipes open her phone, locating her contact and then tossing her cell into Natasha’s lap. “She’s really sympathetic towards vigilantes. She’s already pitching covering this story to her editor. If it’s headlines we want, I’m pretty sure we’ll get them. Natasha, make sure you leak the video to Karen Page at the Bulletin, and Trish Walker from ‘Trish Talk.’”

“I’ll throw a couple of high profile activists on Twitter into the mix too,” Natasha says, like they’re discussing ingredients to a cocktail. “The number of people working against government overreach has doubled since Bush signed the Patriot Act. Alexander Pierce only made it worse.” 

“Plus, you know. It’s New York,” Sharon points out. “Five boroughs that can’t agree on a single fucking thing but they do know that they don’t like being told what to do.” 

“Guess that explains Steve,” Natasha cracks, as she pulls up another highly encrypted email message and attaches the video. “And that’s the last of them. Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.” 

***

The crowd cheers loudly for Natasha as she and Hope go up the stairs into the courthouse, her bright red hair a beacon that identifies her instantly, alongside that same cool smile that most will recognize from her Congressional testimony. Hope snags a newspaper from the hot dog vendor’s cart, tossing the guy a couple of dollars as she goes, and when she flips it open, she finds that Karen Page’s headline does not disappoint: **HELD CAP-TIVE!**

They’re greeted on the steps by Franklin “Foggy” Nelson, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and his hair is freshly cut short and slicked back. He ushers them into a courtroom inside the Federal Courthouse. Tony is already there, waiting with a tall, muscular woman with green skin who can only be Jennifer Walters. Jennifer greets them with a smile, and they all shake hands. “The judge hearing this is Darcy Kline,” Jennifer says in lieu of an introduction. “We couldn’t get a better draw. She’s brusque but she’s very fair.” 

They’re joined by a handsome man in a nice suit, unfashionably small sunglasses, who walks with the assistance of a white aluminum cane. Watching him walk, as silently and effortlessly as any one of her martial arts instructors, Hope has a strange feeling that the cane is somehow unnecessary. She shakes the thought off right away because honestly, why would she think such a thing about a man she’s never met? The man introduces himself as Matt Murdock, and even though he can’t see her face, Hope still feels like he’s looking right through her.

Within five minutes they’re joined by Rosenthal and Weying, and both women are livid because they’ve been denied access to visit with Cap and Scott even though Ross allegedly produced them to court himself in an armored vehicle several hours ago. At this news, Walters, Nelson, and Murdock frown in unison because they've also been denied access to Clint and Sam, and then as a group they decide that this issue has to be raised to the judge as another reason for release from Ross’s custody. Nelson starts furiously texting somebody, and when Hope inquires as to who, she’s pleased when he quietly tells her he’s feeding that info to Karen Page.

The courtroom itself has become overly crowded; there’s already an overflow room chock full of anyone who doesn’t have a press badge, and Sharon digs out her C.I.A. security clearance ID to help them cut through the melee. 

A frazzled Hank Pym, in an expensive dark navy suit that’s somehow gotten very wrinkled from his flight, joins them in the front pews and Hope is truly shocked; Hank hates traveling, hates SHIELD, and hates Tony Stark with a passion that rivals his love for quantum physics. She shoots him a questioning glance. “Dad?” 

Hank cuts a small, sheepish smile in Hope’s direction. “It’s like putting the Accords on trial, at least a little bit. I listened to Trish Talk in the cab this morning so I know that a big chunk of New York City thinks that, anyway.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with you worrying about the involvement of the Ant-Man Suit?” 

Hank shrugs, digging his hands into his trouser pockets, looking strange without the chunky knit cardigans he so favors. “Maybe that, sure. And also I’m here for Scott, of course. We wouldn’t want him to go back to prison without seeing your suit,” he says gruffly, with a conspiratorial wink.

“Of course,” she agrees, side eyeing him back with a smirk. She feels a bit warm about it, really, because she thinks he is actually being honest about this — he really did fly across the country in part because of his concern for Scott. 

Judge Darcy Kline takes the bench after the bailiff calls for order, and she looks at the crowd, unimpressed. “Believe it or not,” she says, with a small smile, “I do have other business than handling superheroes today. In an effort to make this day go smoothly, I’ll handle that matter first, or as soon as General Ross is able to get the four who have been detained into the courtroom. I will allow members of the press to take photographs from the jury box for a minute or so before we start, and not a second longer, at the start of the appearance.” 

After a few moments, General Ross disappears into the back of the courtroom where the jailed clients are brought before their court appearances. When he returns to the courtroom, he has several military officers with him. The courtroom goes silent as Scott, Cap, Sam and Clint are brought out of the back by more officers and seated at the defense table. There’s no sign of their battle-ready suits; instead, they’re all clad in some sort of long-sleeved tech shirt with a sky blue jail uniform and handcuffed. 

With the exception of Cap, who somehow manages to always look like he’s ready for anything, the whole crew of them seem like they’re dead on their feet, like they haven’t slept in days. Sam and Barton are still sporting some cuts and scrapes from the fight outside the hangar, but they’re here. They’re alive. Hope lets out a breath that she didn’t even realize she was holding as the lawyers rush up to the table to stand behind their respective clients. Hope clocks Bernie Rosenthal giving Cap a good-natured “fancy meeting you here” type of eye-roll as a hello before zeroing in on Anne Weying. Anne appears to be introducing herself to a heavily stubbled Scott, with a kind smile that immediately makes Hope glad that she hired her. A second later, Scott cranes his neck to look behind him into the audience. 

Hope’s eyes crash into Scott’s, and she feels herself blush hotly when he winks and quirks up half of his mouth into just a flash of a smile. Sam catches sight of the two of them and takes the opportunity to make an exaggerated long-suffering face in her direction before turning his gaze to where his mother is sitting, but Hope barely registers it. Scott’s happy to see her, if the sudden twinkle in his eye is any indicator, and she’s mortified when her lower lip trembles for a split second. She knows that he’s no stranger to being in jail or getting filed into a courtroom in handcuffs, but for her, seeing him like this is more of a shock than she expected. Scott’s eyes go very soft before he turns back to the judge at the request of the court officer stationed at his back, and she puts her hand to her throat to try and calm her racing heartbeat. Hope swallows thickly and concentrates on putting her game face back in place. 

Natasha notices the momentary slip of Hope’s composure, and she grabs Hope’s hand to give it a hard squeeze. “You’re going to be fine,” Natasha commands, in a whisper. “We’re going to win this.” 

Hope nods, in a daze, suddenly so tired. Hank pats her other hand. “He’ll land on his feet,” Hank says, again with an extra bit of roughness to his already gravelly voice, and Hope realizes that Hank doesn’t like seeing Scott like this any more than she does. Their moment is interrupted, however, when Tony Stark shifts in his seat down the aisle and notices Hank with an audible noise of surprise, which he tries to cover with a cough. 

“Some of us protect our own,” Hank grumbles under his breath, as Laura Barton laughs wetly, her eyes so red rimmed that Hope knows she’s been crying since she left the farm in Iowa to be here in court. They have kids, Hope remembers, and it must’ve felt impossible to leave them with sitters for this. Her heart breaks a little more thinking of Cassie, and hell, the guys at X-Con who seem a little bit lost without Scott. 

“Dad,” Hope admonishes half-heartedly because this is at least in part Tony’s fault, “play nice.” 

Hank pulls a comical “who me?” face that would be more convincing coming from anyone other than her father who hasn’t trusted a Stark since he walked away from SHIELD in the ‘80s, so Hope just lets it go. There are some things about Hank Pym that can’t be changed. 

And then the court appearances begin. One by one, the lawyers introduce themselves for the defense. General Ross introduces himself and just dives right into his main argument. Confidently, he puts his hand on his hip. “Judge, I’m just going to speak plainly, I do not believe this Court has jurisdiction to rule on the matter of custody.” 

Judge Kline looks at him, and Hope has no idea how Ross doesn’t feel completely and utterly stripped naked and judged as lacking by her stony gaze. “You have organized your agencies to try to circumvent this Court’s jurisdiction, so of course you would say that,” she answers dryly. “One could say it’s unclear if you even have custodial authority at all.” 

Ross looks aggrieved. “We are in the process of investigating Steven Grant Rogers, Scott Edward Harris Lang, Samuel Thomas Wilson, and Clinton Francis Barton on charges of aiding and abetting a known terrorist, The Winter Soldier, aka James Buchanan Barnes.”

“What a mouthful,” Hank mutters under his breath. 

Judge Kline looks down her nose at Ross as her glasses slip, giving her the look of an irate librarian. “General, I have the Internet just like most of America, so I’m concerned that your primary terrorism investigation might not hold water. You’ve held these gentlemen before me for seventy-two hours and you're simultaneously telling me that I can’t rule on this jurisdictionally, but if I do decide to rule, that I should grant you an extension due to the nature of your investigation, is this correct?” 

Ross nods. “Yes, Your Honor. That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

“Let me make one part of this clear, up front,” the Judge declares, glaring at Ross again. “I have jurisdiction over four American citizens accused of involvement in acts of terrorism. Don’t like my decision on this? Appeal me later.”

And just like that, Hope starts feeling a little better. The Judge turns to the defense table. “Who’s going first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Dorasolo: I don’t work in the Federal Courts but I do work in criminal defense so some of this is real or based on reality and some of it is so, so not. I really hope we did it justice, pun very very intended. 
> 
> If you’re feeling lenient, sentence us to a kudos or comment? :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Judge Kline’s courtroom and we’re all just living in it, waiting for her decision, and absolutely no one is panicking about it.
> 
> Or: General Ross tries to argue in favor of some not very good decisions, somebody special takes the stand, and morons continue to be in love. Spare a second for Sam Wilson and Hank Pym’s sanity, if you please.

Anne Weying brings the first argument for the defense in front of the court, drawing the room’s attention with her quiet but dignified presence. “Because Mr. Lang and the other defendants are in General Ross’s custody on The Raft, they are being denied their right to counsel.”

General Ross, with a penchant for drama that Hope never would have expected, makes a loud, exasperated guffaw that would be better suited for a Grisham movie than an actual courtroom. “Your Honor,” he argues, “there is no right to counsel before charges are filed.” 

Judge Kline arches an eyebrow at him over her glasses and he noticeably cools off, clearing his throat instead of being openly mocked. “Of course, if Your Honor disagrees with my assessment of the Sixth Amendment, arrangements will be made if they remain in custody pending charges to allow counsel visits.” 

Her eyebrow remains raised. “I do disagree, and if they remain in custody you will do that,” she answers, and she inclines her head back to the defense table after a small shake like she can’t believe she’s listening to Ross’s legal assessment. 

“Your Honor, to file the charges of assisting a terrorist, General Ross would have to show that these four men, including my client Mr. Rogers, believed Barnes to be a terrorist and that they intended to help him. The reason charges have not been filed is because that statement will never be true,” Bernadette Rosenthal states, back straight, her voice impassioned and eloquent. “Barnes is not a terrorist.” 

Ross stands at his table turning red as a tomato. Hank turns to Hope. “It’s a fine time for a blocked artery,” he stage whispers out of the side of his mouth. Hope knows she should tell him to stop, or swat at him, or some other show of displeasure but then again, why make him be nice to General Ross? 

Hank is something of an anomaly; she knows he was conservative in his youth so she can only assume that as a scientist, moving to San Francisco while Reagan was ignoring the AIDS crisis had more of an impact on him than he would ever try to explain. Especially not to her. But now, he’s as vocally anti-government as it comes in his late 60s without becoming one of those survivalist off-the-grid nuts. 

Laura Barton, who Hope has spotted picking nervously at the hem of her soft white cardigan for the past ten minutes, must’ve overheard his comment and she smiles a watery smile into her handkerchief in his direction. 

“Your Honor,” Ross says, indignantly, breaking Hope from her thoughts about her father, “we are still investigating whether it was known that Barnes planned on planting a bomb, and if so, who knew and who helped. We have reason to believe that some, if not all of the defendants here, would have known his plans and perhaps even ordered the rest to follow.” 

“Horseshit,” Sharon says quietly, eyes flashing, as murmurs from the crowd escalate into a din. The audacity of Ross accusing Steve of ordering people like Scott and Clint, who have children, to assist in a bomb plot to disrupt a UN Summit sets Hope’s teeth on edge. 

Nevermind the idea of Captain America willfully taking civilian lives. That’s not an accusation that the crowd can stomach. Hope notices that Pepper Potts has joined Tony in the row, and she’s pursing her lips and shaking her head at Tony. Hope doesn’t need to be a lip reader to see Pepper admonish Tony.

“Order,” yells a bailiff, and the crowd quiets. 

“It seems to me,” Foggy Nelson responds quickly with a seriousness that is surprising given how jovial he was outside on the steps, “that the Wakandan government took ownership of the leaked bombing video. The video would indicate that Barnes was not the bomber and that these four gentlemen were doing what was right to protect him from a huge imposition of questionable governmental authority.” 

“Though true, for the purpose of this hearing, Barnes need not be proven innocent,” Murdock says, gravely, “because even if there is still an investigation into his crimes and the involvement of these men, these men could be released while it is open just like any other defendant.” 

“Finally, I question the authority with which the General has to detain any of the four men,” Jennifer Walters says, with a smug, confident smile aimed at Ross. “The Accords were never ratified,” she begins, and sure enough she’s cut off by an irate General. 

“Because there was a bomb!” The General has both arms out in a supplicant posture, a farce of humility, really. 

“You’ll get your turn to speak, General,” Judge Kline says, frowning. “Ms. Walters, are you questioning the authority the United States Military would have in detaining people based on a United Nations resolution?” 

“Yes, Your Honor, I am,” Walters answers, “the Accords promised to hold superpowered people who cause destruction accountable for their actions, but this is not what we have here today. The parameters of custody and punishment were not in the Accords at all save for the express lack of trial rights. An oversight at best, a purposeful omission at worst. I’d wager on it being a purposeful omission if the Accords allow for superpowered people to be thrown into the Raft without any oversight whatsoever, by the American military, no less, which is exactly what happened. One person who was captured was quickly released and told us about being detained at the Raft. After this, I’m concerned that this was the plan all along, to find superpowered people, accuse them of crimes, and hide them away forever without a known purpose. We can stop this from happening, and we should.”

“Very dramatic,” the Judge notes, dryly as usual, but with a hint of amusement, whether it’s at herself or at Jennifer is anybody’s guess. Hope wishes, not for the first or last time, that she knew what the Judge’s demeanor means for today’s hearing. “But it is certainly concerning, Ms. Walters, knowing that the location of the four men in front of me was not meant to be known. General, your response?”

Ross takes a deep breath, his skin still flushed an angry dark red. “Just last week, Your Honor, Ms. Walters herself had signed a petition as a superpowered person willing to sign the Accords. In light of this, her argument is preposterous that the purpose of the Accords would be to detain superpowered people and throw away the key. Governments have a right to know who may pose a threat due to the inherent nature of superpowers. The Accords, which were a second away from ratification, not only had a superpowered person following, but immense support from the international community. It’s about accountability. The regular system cannot contain these persons.”

The Judge frowns again, looking over her glasses at the defense table. “I see three men who have been trained in some context by the military, one of whom is accused of possessing technology as the source of their superpowers. I see a civilian with technology that allows him to alter his size, a feat he cannot do without a suit. Finally, I see a man who has been enhanced by our government’s technology in a way that makes him a super soldier. Clearly, General, your argument that the system cannot contain people does not apply to Mr. Barton, Mr. Lang, or Mr. Wilson.”

General Ross clears his throat. “Mr. Barton was involved in the destruction of Sokovia, the catalyst for the Accords, and Mr. Wilson was on-site for the disaster in Lagos. As such, I respectfully disagree that they should be contained by any normal system. In fact, I want to petition the court to hear from an expert witness as to why enhanced security like The Raft should be the standard for detaining all superpowered persons accused of crimes, or pending criminal charges. I’d like to ask Tony Stark to speak to the court.” 

Hope exchanges an uneasy glance with Hank, as a hush falls over the courtroom. 

***

Ten minutes of brief recess later, Steve finds himself filing single-line with the others back into the courtroom, with Sam following him closely at his back. 

Steve wishes he could turn around and spare a reassuring word, or start planning where to go next, anything. It’s all out of his hands at this point. He just has to wait and see.

He’s never been very good at that. Steve lowers himself into the narrow wooden seat at Bernie’s side with a small creak and shoots her a grim smile that she returns. 

He’s lucky to have her here. Lucky to have Sam and Scott and Clint going through this with him, lucky to have Nat and Hope pulling the strings for them all. 

But most of Steve’s brain is half a world away, with Bucky, in Wakanda. He wants to know what Bucky’s thinking, how he’s recovering after all of this, if they found Zemo. He wants to get a chance to repeat that kiss in the hangar, only this time, without the audience. He doesn’t want to be sitting in a courtroom, waiting for someone else to decide his fate. 

Tony is going to take the stand. He has to; Steve can’t think of a good enough reason for him not to. 

It’s just that after everything, he doesn’t have a damned clue what Tony’s gonna say. And it’ll be Steve’s fault if they all go down for this — he’s the one that Tony’s angry with, not Sam or Scott or Clint. 

Steve doesn’t regret what he’s done, exactly. It kept Bucky alive, so he can’t regret a single fucking minute of that. 

But he could have handled things with Tony better. He can see that, through the clarity that comes from the other side, now that he knows that Bucky is safe. 

Steve curls both hands into a fist, taking a deep breath in, and then letting it all go, before sinking back into the discomfort of his chair. It’s up to Tony, now, whether either of them will get the chance to make things right. 

“The court calls Mr. Anthony Stark,” the bailiff says, her voice ringing out all through the packed room. 

About a thousand whispered conversations break out behind him but through it all, Steve can still pick out Laura Barton’s furtive “Stark, how could you!?”

Tony saunters up to the stand, all expensive suiting and put-upon attitude, only stopping to push his sunglasses up to the top of his head when it came time for him to be sworn in. 

Sam mutters under his breath and Steve can’t help the answering eye roll. Jesus Christ, Tony. 

Tony taps on the microphone. “Is this thing on?” The microphone squeals with feedback and Tony leans away. “Guess it is. Go ahead, General. What do you want?” 

Ross smiles. “Mr. Stark, you are the biggest supporter of the Accords from the superpowered person community. You were also in the room when the bomb went off, are both of these things true?”

Tony blinks. “I certainly was in the room when the bomb went off, and I was a big supporter, both of those things are true.” 

Steve glances at Ross’s smirking face out of the corner of his eye, and has to swallow around a sudden rise of bile in his throat. 

There’s something dead-eyed and self-assured about Ross, like every back-alley bully Steve’s ever known. Ross is angry, sure, but he still thinks that he’s already won. “And are superpowered people easily contained in a regular jail cell?” 

“It depends,” Tony answers drolly. “If they don’t have a suit on, a regular jail cell certainly would suffice with adequate staffing. If they don’t rely on suits and are instead genetically superpowered, it depends on the power. Obviously super strength and mind control require something different. But are you talking about custody in general or the custody of these four people? Because I don’t think these people should be in custody.” 

Ross shoots Tony a flat glare, but the self-assurance is dropping off as a red flush starts to rise in his face. “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Stark. But you agree that if a superpowered person commits a crime, there should be punishment, do you not?”

Tony opens his mouth to speak. 

“Actually, Mr. Stark,” Judge Kline says, interrupting the General, “I have a few questions first. Mr. Stark, after the events of the last week, do you still support the Accords?”

Tony pauses while he looks over at the General, who is now fully bright red and seething at Tony, while Tony seems unperturbed by the intimidation tactic. Tony nonchalantly shifts his gaze to the defense table and takes a breath. “I do not, not as they function in reality. Not the way things happened four days ago. No.” 

Steve exhales sharply, as Sam lets out a soft “oh damn” next to him. He hoped for this but he didn’t expect it. Maybe that’s on him, for not thinking Tony was capable of this. 

“Mr. Stark, is there a reason for the change of heart?” Judge Kline shifts her glasses from the base of her nose back to the bridge, giving him all of her attention in a way that should have been unnerving, but Tony’s eyes are glazed and far away. 

“I was involved in the destruction of the hangar in Vienna four nights ago and released after one night on the Raft, no harm, no foul, the same actions as these men, with a pat on the back. Your Honor, I saw the Wakandan footage of the bombing, and so did the General. These men had nothing to do with it, and Ross wants them anyway.” Here, Tony snaps back into focus and fixes Ross with a stare. “He wants to put a nineteen year old kid in the Raft and never release her. I don’t want to be a part of this, whatever he’s doing. This isn’t what I wanted from the Accords. It’s not accountability, it’s not justice, it’s just a power trip.” 

“Permission to treat him as a hostile witness?” Ross demands. Steve’s pretty sure that he catches sight of spittle flying from the corner of Ross’s mouth, like a cartoon villain on full display. 

“Oh, there will be none of that, General,” the Judge scoffs, waving her hand like it suddenly smells bad in the courtroom. “I can’t imagine you have any other questions that will change what I just heard. Are you finished, then?”

Now, Steve doesn’t even try to hide his staring. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns to face Ross. Next to him, as if in unison, Sam, Scott, and Clint turn too. 

“Are you guys hearing this,” Scott whispers, incredulous. “Tony Stark? Tony _fucking_ Stark?”

“This cannot be real,” Sam answers him, before they’re both shushed by the lawyers. 

All the blood has drained from Ross’s face; he doesn’t look like he’s won anymore. Ross clears his throat loudly, casting his gaze downward towards the manila folder in front of him like it will reveal some answer to his problems. Ross’s nostrils flare as he mutters “no, your honor,” through gritted teeth, “just a reminder that the investigation into the four men is not concluded.”

“Thank you Mr. Stark, that will be all,” Judge Kline declares conclusively, rubbing her hands together as Tony heads back into the audience of the courtroom. This time, Laura Barton is much more welcoming. “And thank you to all parties. I will issue my decision later this morning after I have a few moments of quiet. Take charge.” 

Steve, Sam, Clint and Scott are led to a small holding cell behind the courtroom in a narrow hallway, and several military guards are posted outside of the cell’s gate. One is guard is Rhodey, who peers at them skeptically. “No funny business now, guys,” he says, and if Steve didn’t know Rhodey, he’d believe that Rhodey was dead serious. 

“Did you know he was going to do that?” Clint looks up at Rhodey, who breaks from his professional facade with the ghost of a smile. 

“Hell no,” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “Tony probably didn’t know what he was going to say before it came out of his mouth, either. But I do know he’s been a mess since Ross left you guys in custody, trying to get you out, so maybe it shouldn’t have been that a big of a surprise, now that I think about it.”

“So what happens next?” Scott looks around the cell. “I think I could still use a pep talk. It didn’t go so well the last time I went through this kind of thing.” 

With Tony’s testimony on their side, Steve can already feel it in his bones that the path moving forward is clear. Judge Kline was sharp and no-nonsense, that much was obvious, and Steve could tell that she was more than able to cut right through Ross’s bullshit. Without a trustworthy source backing Ross up, she was going to rule in their favor. She had to. 

Steve lets a small smile slip across his face, not wanting to allow himself a nanosecond of doubt. Not after everything they’ve been through. 

Steve’s got a good feeling about what happens next. So does Rhodey, from the little smirk that he’s shooting in their direction. 

Steve claps Scott on the shoulder. “For now, we wait. And then by this time tomorrow, you’ll be home with Hope and your daughter.” 

“You don’t know that,” Clint points out, craning his neck around Scott’s head to eyeball Steve. “No offense, Captain Optimism, I know this is your first arrest and all but you never know how this court shit is gonna go.” 

Steve just raises an eyebrow. “Trust me, Clint, this is not my first arrest.”

Scott throws his head back, letting out a laugh. “Man. Captain America. Knowing you in real life is so much better than I ever would have guessed.” 

“Hey, try to take it seriously back here,” Rhodey cracks, his eyes glinting with mirth.

Scott apologizes, but it’s clear to Steve that he’s not at all sorry.

***

Hope stands in the hallway outside of the courtroom in a daze, while Hank goes in search for coffee. Anne Weying has been working to reassure her for at least five minutes, but to Hope it all just feels like empty words until the quiet, grumpy Matt Murdock starts grinning at the other lawyers. Now, she feels her stomach settle into something other than a tornado because she’d bet something valuable that Murdock isn’t normally an optimist. 

A buxom blonde woman in a smart and very expensive bespoke suit is smiling at Foggy with so much unexpected emotion that Hope is taken aback. “It’s his girlfriend,” Sharon whispers, seeing Hope’s perplexed glance their way. “She’s a lawyer too, but she ducked out of her own case to check in on how it’s going. I already introduced myself. Can’t have strangers among us.” 

Foggy and his girlfriend look mismatched but sweet together, and totally besotted with one another. Hope feels a very sharp stabbing pain in her heart again about Scott handcuffed in jail, and suddenly her impatience to just get a damn answer from the judge ratchets up several notches as she tugs at the sleeves of her immaculate navy blue pantsuit. Why is it suddenly so cold and in the courthouse? And why is the ribbon bow tie on her blouse so tight?

Natasha grabs hold of Hope’s elbow with a steady hand. Her now chin-length red hair is curled to perfection and her forest green suit is finely tailored, giving an overall impression of togetherness that’s easily reflected in the calm, knowing gaze that Natasha shoots her way. “All of the cards are in our favor. Have a little hope, huh?” 

Hope rolls her eyes, even as she can feel herself cracking a smile. “Not you too, Nat. That was awful.” 

It’s loud in the hallway, with Jennifer Walters’ confident reassurance that they “got this,” and Foggy’s answering laughter. A still-grinning Matt Murdock tries to grumble about holding in their relief for a few more minutes but Hope can tell that it’s mostly for show. Rosenthal and Weying can’t stop their grins either, so maybe they’re right to be this sure. 

Tony is once again in Laura Barton’s good graces so she’s handing him a squashed granola bar from her purse and smiling. Hope has no idea why it’s taking Hank so long to get back upstairs with the coffee, but all chatter ceases when the court officers open the doors again for the Judge’s decision. 

They all hurry inside to take their seats, more or less where they were sitting prior to the break. Hank finally hustles in, without any coffee, so Hope eyes him quizzically. “I had something to handle,” he says cryptically, and she rolls her eyes at how weird her father can be when he puts his mind to it. 

Steve, Sam, Clint and Scott are brought back to the defense table, and Scott turns around again to see her. This time he gives a little wink, and she shoots him a long suffering glare in return. He quirks an eyebrow at her and makes a face, and she just shakes her head, because he’s the most ridiculous person she knows. Inside her head, however, is a different story — she’s so glad he’s back to trying to make her laugh that she could burst. 

“I have made a decision, or rather several,” Judge Kline says, interrupting Hope’s musings. “I am not going to issue a ruling on the validity of the Accords. If the United Nations decides to hold another vote, I believe that the individual nation states will again have the opportunity to determine whether it should be ratified in light of what are glaring, potentially illegal problems with the agreement that bear directly on the Constitutional rights of superpowered persons. I am not going to issue a ruling on the guilt or non-guilt of James Buchanan Barnes, who is not before me, though I will caution the parties, especially General Ross, to look at all available evidence before moving forward with that matter. This does include a video from the Wakandan government. I am not going to order that General Ross cease his investigation into Mr. Rogers, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Barton or Mr. Lang.” 

A murmur rises from the courtroom before it gets immediately shushed just as quickly as it came. 

“What I am going to do is release these men from custody. I’m going to order that each of the four men remain in New York City for a week for General Ross to decide whether he can charge any of these individuals. My unofficial opinion is that I doubt it, but it’s not my job to decide. If remaining in New York City is too difficult, I will allow house arrest in their home cities. Will anybody be choosing house arrest and an ankle monitor?” 

“Mr. Barton will,” Jennifer says smoothly. 

“Very good. We will set that up before he leaves the courtroom,” the Judge responds, nodding briskly. 

Judge Kline folds her hands in front of her, casting her gaze outwards across the room, “I will adjourn this case one week from today, and I expect everybody to be here on time. I do not expect Mr. Rogers, Mr. Wilson nor Mr. Lang to defy my order to remain in the city. Gentlemen, will that be a problem?”

“We don’t have to stay in Manhattan, do we?” Steve asks with a wry smile, right before Rosenthal gives him the stink-eye. 

Judge Kline, on the other hand, is clearly fighting to keep her face passive but her lips twitch anyways. “Anywhere within the five boroughs should be fine. You gentlemen are free to go.” 

The crowd lets out a resounding, echoing celebratory cheer, with the distinctive noise of camera shutters going off as journalists start to crowd in, but Hope only has eyes for Scott as he makes his way to stand in front of her.

“Hi,” she says, breathlessly, eyes sparkling as she stares at him. 

“Hi,” he says back, with a small smile, eyes tender, as he stares at her. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hank groans, “this shit again? It’s only been _four days_. Excuse me, if you don’t mind, could we leave the courtroom before we get trampled? Sheesh.” 

Hope can’t see Sam in the crush of people but she can hear him let out a loud snort, followed by a “Hank Pym, a man after my own heart.” 

“Still the same Hank, and same Sam,” Scott jokes weakly as they shuffle out of the courtroom, Scott pulling her over in the direction of Sam, where he’s standing with his mother. Hope dumbly registers Laura and Clint’s tearful reunion in the hallway, and the way Natasha wraps Steve up in a hug as if she’s not a full foot shorter than him, all while Hope tries to search out a nook to stop and attend to Scott properly.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there’s Cassie Lang, dressed in a pink tutu, running and throwing herself at Scott’s legs, and Maggie is there too, leaning against the wall, smiling at them. 

“Peanut,” Scott breathes, wrapping his daughter in his arms. “I missed you so so much,” he continues, voice thick with tears, “but how did you get here?”

“I flew,” Cassie answers, matter of factly, grinning her gap toothed grin. 

She’s wearing a green soccer jersey with her tutu and bright yellow chucks; there’s jam stuck to one of her cheeks, probably, hopefully from her breakfast, and Scott is looking at her like he’s holding the whole galaxy in the palm of his hands. It’s not a secret to Hope, how she feels about Scott, but somehow it still surprises her, how much he can just knock her sideways with the smallest moments. 

Hope looks to Hank, who’s rocking back and forth on his heels, looking for all intents and purposes like the cat who ate the canary, and that’s all the answer she needs. He won’t say it out loud; that’s not his way. But Hope throws her arms around him anyway. “Thank you,” she whispers. Hank clears his throat and tentatively returns her hug. 

Scott stands, hoisting Cassie in his arms despite her protests that she’s a big girl and can walk, and exaggeratedly pretends to stumble back over to Hope and Hank. “Really, thank you, Hank,” Scott says, his eyes too bright. 

“Least I could do,” Hank says gruffly, his arm still linked with Hope’s, but Hank lets go so Hope can find her way to Scott’s unoccupied side. 

Just for a second, Hope catches hold of Natasha’s gaze where Natasha is holding court with Steve and Sam and Sharon, still with one arm linked through Steve’s all while Sam’s mom maintains a vice grip on Sam’s left hand. Natasha nods at her, shooting Hope a quick, sloppy salute with her other hand. They’ll go to Sam’s place in the Bronx, Hope figures. Natasha’s in charge; they’ll be fine. 

Hope turns back to Scott, pressing a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go to the hotel,” she says, fighting through the thickness in her voice. “Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Cap is a state of being, really.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Cap has a week of downtime in NYC, what on earth will they get up to? Picnics, jokes, and mockery abound, and then: a resolution, at last.

Steve’s snaps into wakefulness with a start, slinging himself half out of bed on instinct. The soft, navy blue blanket that Sam’s mom knit for him is twisted around his legs; Steve has one hand braced against the cold, hardwood floor of his apartment. 

Clinton Hill. Top floor of a brownstone. Not a prison cell. 

Nat helped him buy this place through a couple of shell corporations a while back, a couple of months after the Triskelion. He’s never furnished it; he’s never had the time. There’s just a mattress on the floor, an unexpected splurge on a nice one that came rolled up in a box, and not a whole lot else. 

If pressed, Steve would probably admit that he’s waiting for someone else, for Bucky, before making this place a home. But he’s alone in an empty, barren apartment and there’s nothing for him to do except take in a deep breath, counting to three, and then letting it out. 

Bucky’s alive. Neither of them are in prison. Steve flops backwards onto the mattress, pillowing his head on one arm while he reaches for his phone with the other. 

Just as he plucks his phone off the mattress, it starts to buzz with an incoming call. 

“I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it,” Sam’s voice comes through before Steve can say anything. 

“Hello to you too, Sam,” Steve says dryly. “Did Nat make you marathon the Mission Impossible movies again?” 

“She’s listening, so I’m gonna plead the fifth.” There’s the sound of a squabble and a soft thump, like Nat just smacked Sam in the arm, which probably, she did. “The mission is, you stop moping in your empty Brooklyn love nest and join all of us in Central Park for a picnic.” 

“All of us?” A day in the park sounds like exactly the kind of thing Steve could use to clear his head but he doesn’t think he and Tony are on picnic terms yet. 

“Team Cap only, man,” Sam says. “Plus Lang’s adorable daughter, the one with the soccer jersey and the tutu. We can all gang up on Lang and Hope when they start to get too nauseating.” 

“They make a good pair,” Steve says mildly. They do make a good pair, but that’s not the point. He said it chiefly because he knows it’ll get a rise out of Sam, and he’s not disappointed. 

Sam scoffs. “No one asked you, old man. Meet us at the Central Park Zoo at noon. Try to wear a shirt that fits you.” 

“All my shirts fit me, that’s why they’re my shirts,” Steve points out, before pushing on immediately so Sam doesn’t get the space to argue. “But just for you, I’ll throw on a stealthy baseball cap too.” 

***

The New York weather is pleasant and mild, the early May sun peeking its way through what had been a cloudy morning but is already promising to be a sunny afternoon. Hope ushers Scott and Cassie into Central Park over to the grassy knoll by the baseball fields. This is the spot where Sam seems to think they’ll have the most luck fading into a crowd as a large group. Despite the probability for getting spotted and accosted being rather high, Hope had been glad for the picnic in the park idea because she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the potential for two bored Langs left in a hotel, even one with a swimming pool.

She wasn’t the only one with a fear of bored Langs; before Sam had even called to make plans, Hank had gone into the Pym Tech satellite office with a directive not to wait for him almost immediately after the hotel’s rather ostentatious continental breakfast. After Sam had called, and Scott had asked politely, Maggie still elected to stay back at the hotel to take advantage of the sauna and massage package. Scott had been only too happy to relieve her of her parenting duties. Hope has been getting used to spending more time with a six year old, but still, today could prove to be challenging navigating New York with Cassie. 

Except that Cassie is on her very best behavior from the second she takes Scott’s hand in the hotel, to Shake Shack, where she didn’t even fight about Scott refusing to buy the world’s biggest cup of chocolate custard for lunch. While Scott juggles the food they did buy, Cassie holds Hope’s hand leaving the restaurant and crossing the street, her small face gaping at buildings and horses and the New York of it all. 

They sit in the grass nearby the baseball fields in matching Yankees hats, because Sam says they have to wear hats and sunglasses after court to avoid the newfound fame and publicity. Scott grumbles under his breath to Hope that they aren’t actually inconspicuous, they’re still themselves but now in hats. Even so, they sprawl out in fitted black hoodies and jeans, looking as nondescript as they can manage as attractive people, minus one little girl who steadfastly refused to get with the under-the-radar program. 

Cassie’s purple tie dyed leggings don’t exactly go with the bright pink I Heart New York t-shirt that Scott picked up at the tourist shop when they were in New York the first time, what now seems like a million years ago. With those two items of clothing together, she sticks out like a sore thumb. Her tiny denim jacket with smiley face embroidered patches is so adorable that Hope wants to tell Cassie that she’s probably the coolest person Hope knows, so she does. 

“You’re funny, Miss Hope,” Cassie proclaims, squeezing Hope’s hand just a little harder. Cassie is still holding onto Hope even though they’re all safely away from traffic and sitting down on the pilfered hotel coverlet in the grass. Noticing their still-clasped hands, Scott’s eyes flash with something that may be sentiment, or maybe just the onset of spring allergies. Either way, he sniffles and blows his nose in a Shake Shack napkin. 

The moment is interrupted by a very droll voice. “How is it possible that you’ve become more of a crybaby?”

“Sam,” Scott nods, lifting his gaze with a dead-eyed stare, “how lovely it is for you to join my family and give me um, poop about it.” 

Hope starts for a split second when Scott refers to her as his family, warmth in her cheeks. But she supposes it’s true, she and Scott are family after all of the adventures in San Francisco and certainly after their whirlwind trip across time zones. They’re a weird motley crew brought together by bug suits, but they’re family nonetheless. 

“Daddy said _poop_,” Cassie giggles to Hope, breaking Hope from her thoughts. Composing herself, Cassie asks Sam seriously, “Are you my Daddy’s friend?” 

“Sure am,” Sam says enthusiastically, his eyes soft. “I’m Sam. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cassie.”

Natasha steps out from behind Sam, looking put together in a way that Hope does not, and has not since the meeting with Tony. Natasha manages to somehow look entirely anonymous at the same time. It is New York, after all -- there’s no shortage of stylish women in black leather jackets. 

“Wow,” Cassie gasps, starstruck. “Are _you_ my Daddy’s friend, too?” 

Natasha tilts her head to the side, eyes crinkling into a smile that has yet to reach the rest of her face. “That depends. Can spiders be friends with ants, you think?” 

“They did in that old movie that I watched with Uncle Luis, a Bug’s Life,” Cassie says, crossing her arms over her chest with an air of great seriousness. “So, yes.” 

“Fair enough,” Natasha says, before dropping to a crouch on the hotel coverlet, sinking down into a criss-cross. “Hi Cassie. I’m Nat.” 

Natasha leans over to shake Cassie’s hand, feigning solemnity, and Cassie responds in kind, looking like a tiny businessman in purple tie-dye. 

“Since when is a Bug’s Life ‘old?’” Sam asks Scott, still standing, brow furrowed as he frowns down at them. 

Scott just waves a hand dismissively. “She’s a kid, everything before her time counts as old. You get used to it.” 

Sam considers this and nods, before shrugging off his backpack and dropping to the coverlet, as he carefully places another giant brown bag in the middle to join Scott and Hope’s takeout from Shake Shack. “Alright, who wants bagels and bialys?” 

“I hope you brought enough for me.” Steve’s voice rings out from behind them but the sun appears from behind a cloud so suddenly that Hope has to bring up one hand to shield her eyes when she looks up at him. 

Like Sam, he’s in a Nationals cap, along with a cracked brown leather jacket that looks about as vintage as he is, and Hope’s left wondering how many missions the Avengers need to go on together before they all start dressing alike.

“Puh-lease,” Sam says, tossing his zipped up backpack in the direction of Steve’s legs. “You have your own separate bag in here, you know I don’t share food with you anymore.” 

Scott looks up at Steve and wrinkles his nose. “Hey Cap, I don’t know how it could have happened, but was there a mixup after we got our stuff back from the Raft? Did you somehow get my shirt?”

“No,” Steve says, looking down at his shirt, clearly puzzled at the line of questioning and not at all used to Scott’s regular irreverence being leveled in his direction, “why would you think so?” 

“There’s really no other reason for you to be wearing that size t-shirt,” Scott says, smirking. 

“My man,” Sam exclaims proudly, with his hand up for a high five, to which Scott is quick to oblige. Cassie also wants a high five, so Sam gives her one too.

Hope laughs. She doesn’t laugh often enough, she thinks, because most people don’t think as hard as she does about the right thing to do in a given situation. But now that she started laughing, she doesn’t want to stop. Being here like this, with everybody, feels right. 

“I like this,” Natasha says, agreeing with Hope’s inner thoughts, as she balances an open container of cream cheese neatly on one knee, digging in with more gusto than the plastic knife should allow. “We should keep making more superpowered friends, expand the comedy routine. Ganging up on Cap is way more fun this way.” 

“Oh ha ha.” Steve leans over and steals the newly-fixed everything bagel from right out of her hands, and then promptly dances out of reach. “If that’s how it is, maybe I should take off for Wakanda early.” 

Natasha barely moves a muscle in retaliation; instead, she just rolls her eyes and plucks another bagel out of the bag. “Please. Your boyfriend likes to make fun of you too. And you’re not exactly sunshine and roses, yourself. We’re on to you, Rogers.” 

“Judge Kline would be so disappointed if you left,” Scott volleys, “you would really be so cold as to insult the judge like that?”

Sam snickers into his bialy, and Hope catches his gaze out of the corner of her eye before jutting her chin in the direction of a splotch of cream cheese on Cap’s t-shirt, which makes Sam snicker even more. 

Steve, to his credit, just heaves a put-upon sigh before joining them on the makeshift picnic blanket, bringing his long legs up to his chest as he sits down. “Find a back alley to beat me up in and I’ll feel right at home, like no time has passed at all.” 

“You shouldn’t fight, Captain America,” Cassie says plaintively, her big brown eyes looking up at him. “Then you have to go to the principal’s office instead of recess.” 

Steve opens his mouth as if to say something, and then shuts it just as quickly. He looks, Hope realizes, a lot like she probably looked the first time she spent time with Cassie. He doesn’t know how to talk to kids at all, she figures, and she can empathize with that. 

“Give him a break, Cassie,” Hope says, tugging on Cassie’s braid and shooting Steve a conspiratorial smile to let him know that he’s in on this joke too. “I don’t think they had recess back in his day. You know, back before A Bug’s Life came out.” 

Cassie huffs, but the effect of it is ruined by the smear of ketchup from her fries across her right cheek. “He’s Captain America,” she says smartly. “I know he’s way older than A Bug’s Life. Everyone knows that, we learned it at school.” 

Steve kicks out with one foot, nudging the tip of Sam’s sneakers. “What’s with the jokes at my expense, huh? Aren’t we supposed to be making fun of Hope and Scott?” 

“Don’t worry, there’s still time for them to be totally gross,” Sam says, around a mouthful of bialy. He takes a beat, and then swallows. “Besides, I thought you said they ‘_make a good pair_’?” 

“We _are_ a good pair,” Scott declares, “so thank you for noticing, Cap.”

Hope rolls her eyes as Nat unfurls herself from the neat criss-cross she’d be sitting in to lean back against Steve, using his legs as a pillow as she stretches out. Steve rolls his eyes, shifting to accommodate her, like this is something that they’ve done a thousand times before. She grins up at him, swiping at his nose with one hand. “Don’t pout, Steven, we mock because we love. Besides, we helped you start an international incident for your boyfriend, that’s gotta be worth at least thirty minutes of jokes.” 

Scott gestures in their direction with the plastic knife he’s been fiddling with, because as usual, he’s unable to keep his hands still. “I’m gonna second that one because Cap, hands down, Stark is the worst cellmate I’ve ever had. And that includes Big Mark, the guy who would spend all night farting after Sloppy Joe Wednesdays.” 

Hope nudges Scott companionably in the shoulder and arches a skeptical eyebrow. She pitches her voice so she’s sure he knows she’s teasing, and then she burns him. “Are you _sure_ that was Big Mark?” 

Cassie grabs ahold of the conversation and grins impishly, laughing. “It was you, Daddy!” 

“Ooh, I don’t like this game anymore either, Cap,” Scott declares, playfully pushing Hope away with a real grimace, and pulling grass from Cassie’s hair, somehow doing both actions simultaneously like they’re some sort of sleight of hand magic. 

Steve solemnly holds up his hand for a high five from Cassie, who rushes up to give it to him, giggling like she’s proud of herself, which she undoubtedly is. She’s like a miniature of Scott in that way. 

“So Cassie, is there anything special you want to do in New York?” Sam looks her in the eye and Cassie looks back at Scott questioningly. 

“It’s ok, Peanut, you can tell him.” Scott gives her an encouraging nod. 

“I want to see the dinosaurs,” Cassie explains, suddenly a little shy, probably because she doesn’t know Sam and as enthusiastic as Cassie is, she’s still six. “They have really old bones at the museum.”

“We don’t have to go to the museum for that, Peanut. There are really old bones right here,” Scott says sincerely and Sam silently raises his fist in the air. “Turns out I still like this game after all.”

Steve just raises an eyebrow. “Did you guys rehearse that one in advance or something? Last I checked, these old bones could out-run you both five times over.” 

“Ohhhh, he’s got you there,” Nat quips, reaching up to give Steve a fist bump. 

“Does he though?” Hope wrinkles her nose. “He’s maxes out on experimental superserum. Not really a fair contest.” 

“Well _thank you_ Hope,” Sam says smugly, “and because she’s the voice of reason, I’m going to consider it settled.” 

“She’s the voice of something, alright,” Scott murmurs, looking at her fondly, and she finds that doesn’t really mind it so much, having this relationship out in the open like this. She puts her hand into his palm, lacing their fingers. He squeezes once and she returns it, grinning back at him. 

“Ugh, you guys had to go and ruin it,” Sam grumbles, covering his eyes with his hand. “What did I tell you, Cap? Gross.” 

“I think they’re sweet,” Steve says, in a blank voice that gives nothing away, but when Hope sneaks a look at him, his lips are twitching up into a smirk. At least they were, before Nat elbows him in the side, sending the last bite of his bagel flying into the air and onto the grass. 

“Serves you right,” Nat mutters, resettling herself on the grass, both hands tucked behind her head like a pillow. 

Steve just leans over, retrieving his bagel up off the ground and lightly brushing it off. “What?” He says defensively, as everyone turns to stare at him. “It’s just a little dirt. I’m not going to _waste_ food.” 

“But you broke the five second rule,” Cassie squeals in horror, with all of the earnestness that makes her one of the cutest children Hope has ever met, which isn’t saying much, but it’s something. 

Hope can only cover her face, laughing helplessly into her hand as her whole body shakes with it. 

***

And just like that, they’re back at the Federal courthouse. There’s less fanfare and less paparazzi this time, but it’s still a madhouse even at eight in the morning. Hope and Scott arrive with Hank, waiting outside the courtroom for everybody else. They’re so incredibly early because Hank refuses to be anything but the first person to arrive, mostly for the ability to glare at everybody else for arriving later. He’s always been that way and her father is nothing if not predictable. 

They’re early enough that Scott has to be entertained with the crossword puzzle book because otherwise, when left with too much spare time, he’ll start overthinking. Overthinking will only lead to panic about the potential for criminal charges, and he’s been through enough jail time for this lifetime. Hope leans back on the uncomfortable wooden bench and closes her eyes, thinking about how much Scott has to lose and feeling inexplicably grateful that he trusted her enough to get him out of this relatively unscathed. 

The week before they got called back in for updates on the investigation had crawled by slowly, but it was a strange, comfortable type of slow that Hope didn’t appreciate for most of her life but is really trying to now. Cassie and Maggie went home to California the morning after Cassie’s museum trip, and for the first time since she and Scott have been together, Hope missed having her around. If she told Scott, he’d call it progress and then smile at her meaningfully for days, so she’s trying to process it all first before she tries to figure out how to put that particular minefield into words. 

Poker night at Sam’s was fun too, even though she’s certain that neither Scott, Sam nor Steve would agree. Hope easily relieved them of all of their money, and would have continued to do so well into the night, but then Natasha showed up and as it turned out, she had nothing on the former spy in terms of a poker face. They made it through three straight losses before Sam tossed his last losing hand over his shoulder and declared that it was time to pick a movie or get the fuck out of his house. 

They even got together twice to run as a group, in Central Park and Prospect Park, and Steve only broke out the super speed once as a demonstration of sorts. “It _is_ a dick move when he does that,” Scott had told Sam, who raised his hand in triumph once again to have a cohort in making complaints. 

While Scott and Sam went to look at new tech with Hank at a convention center in Midtown, Natasha had taken her to a private martial arts studio in Hell’s Kitchen where she had a lesson with Colleen Wing, an incredibly impressive instructor especially considering how young she is, and the three of them spent the better part of an afternoon beating the shit out of each other on the mats. 

All in all, it was nice to feel like she was part of this team, something different but no less special than what she shares with everybody in California. 

She’s startled from her reverie by the crinkling of what can only be a pastry bag, and sure enough, Natasha is dangling a pastry bag in front of her face. She has a small smirk on her face, probably because she got the drop on Hope, and she’s flanked by Steve and Sam, who made the very smart choice to show up in their dress uniforms. Between the two of them, they have more medals pinned to their chests than anyone can possibly pick out or identify. 

“I’m woefully underdressed,” Scott observes, even though he had let Hank foot the bill for an appropriate suit for court. Hope eyes him speculatively and she lets him catch her looking, and the corner of his mouth quirks as he sits up straighter. 

But then, Clint and Laura are there with baby Nate in Laura’s arms, both in jeans. “Couldn’t get a sitter for the baby, just the older kids,” Laura says, cringing. “It’s probably not okay, but that’s what’s happening.” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Tony says breezily, coming up behind them. He still looks sheepish, but he greets the baby. “Hi Nate, it’s your Uncle Tony, and everybody is still mad.” 

Sam opens his mouth, but closes it again as Steve shakes his head. The lawyers arrive in a group, which Hope finds kind of cute, and they all step inside. 

Steve takes the lead, and the rest of them follow suit. It’s a good feeling, the way heads turn as they enter the courtroom; they’re an united front, no matter what happens next. 

They wait for Ross to come with an update, but he never shows. At half past ten, when everybody is completely on edge and the paparazzi in the hallway is buzzing with curiosity, a nondescript man walks into the courtroom. The man has a quiet conversation with some of the courtroom officers, who alert the court clerk, and within ten minutes, Judge Kline is on the bench. 

The case is called in, and Steve, Sam, Clint and Scott walk to the defense table and sit down at the behest of the courtroom staff. Their respective lawyers frown and while they put their appearances on the record, the nondescript man takes his place at the prosecution table. 

“On behalf of Thaddeus Ross and the Sokovia Accords Enforcement Agency, I’m Charles Burlingame. We have concluded our investigation into the defendants. Thank you for allowing us the time. We have no charges to file.” 

Judge Kline blinks rapidly. “I don’t think your agency exists and if it does, I’d love to see the authority for it, Mr. Burlingame. Either way, I’m glad you’re done bothering these gentlemen.” She looks at the defense table. “You heard the man; you’re free to go.”

It’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... did you miss us? We’re nearing the end here, folks. Imagine that this is when they roll the credits. But since this is the MCU, maybe there’s a post-credit scene or two left... as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but idiots as far as the eyes can see, all. Idiots who love each other, idiots in love, even some idiots who begrudgingly respect each other. This is the soppy, well-deserved end of it all. 
> 
> Or is it?

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with?” Steve directs the question at Sam, possibly for the tenth time, all while Natasha sits watching them from her perch on the countertop. The remains of their breakfast are littered throughout the kitchen, with half a pancake split in half on the stove still, from when Sam tried to get fancy with his pancake flipping moves. 

Sam balls up a napkin and throws it at Steve. “To Wakanda? Hell no. I mean don’t get me wrong...I wanna go to Wakanda but I think I’ll skip the third wheel trip this time around, maybe see if I can wrangle a solo trip without your pale ass.” 

Natasha smirks around the rim of her coffee cup, looking entirely too dangerous for someone loafing around in sweatpants and a sweatshirt of Sam’s that she seems to have permanently absconded with. “What, I don’t get an invitation?” She feigns a simper at Steve but he’s not buying it for a second. 

Instead, Steve just raises an eyebrow at her. “If you want to come, you’ll find a way onto the Quinjet.” He picks his duffle up off the kitchen floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “So I figure, I’ll either see you or I won’t.” 

Natasha doesn’t respond, which is as good an answer as any to let him know that he’s got her dead to rights. 

“Alright, Cap. We’ve hugged you, we’ve fed you, Natasha even told you your hair looked nice for your boy.” Sam levels Steve with an expectant stare. “What more do you need, man?” 

Steve gives himself a couple of seconds to stand there, taking them in. Sam, who wraps his kindness and his smarts and his grit up in impatience and a wry humor. Natasha, who tries so hard not to let herself be vulnerable, but has one of the biggest hearts he’s ever known. They’ve spent a lot of time together over the past year. There are pages and pages in his sketchbook filled with the way Sam’s brow furrows when he’s close to working out a plan, coupled with the Natasha’s face crinkles together when she laughs. It’s different when it’s her real laugh, the one that comes out closer to an undignified snort than anything else. 

Steve rubs at an invisible ache in his chest; it’s overwhelming, a little, how grateful he is for them. 

“Sam, I think Steve is gonna start crying because he loves us,” Natasha says, her tone all matter of fact, setting her coffee cup down on the counter with a clatter. “What do you say, should we bully him?” 

Sam waves an idle hand in front of himself. “Nah, he already got taken down by a seven year old this week, I think our work here is done.” 

Steve pushes out a small, tremulous laugh, hoping that it sounds a little like the _thank you_ that he means it to be. If Sam’s small curve of a smile is anything to go by, the message is received. 

“Dude, if you linger in the foyer for any longer, I’m gonna start throwing the leftover pancake batter at you,” Sam threatens, but his gaze is soft when he says it. 

Steve backs up, raising both hands up in the air in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” He swings open the door to Sam’s apartment, tossing a “I’ll miss you” over his shoulder that gets a swift “no, you fucking won’t,” in return. 

Steve just flips them both off without turning around, and then the door swings shut. 

That was the easy part. 

The hard part is what comes next, when he goes to meet Tony at the Quinjet at Stark Tower. Technically speaking, it’s not a Quinjet, it’s whatever the Wakandan answer to a Quinjet is, but Stark Tower was the best place for it to land and Steve’s not foolish enough to think he’ll get all the way to Tony’s landing pad without having to talk to him. 

And he doesn’t want that, not really. He doesn’t want their last real conversation to have been what it was, he wants to smooth things over. 

It’s just, he doesn’t have a hell of a lot of faith in their ability not to piss each other off. 

The anxiety in Steve’s shoulders ratchets up a notch with every ascending floor in the elevator. He got an encrypted message from T’Challa right as he was stepping into the elevator, confirming that the plane, along with the woman that T’Challa sent to pilot it, are already here, waiting for him. 

The elevator dings and the doors glide open, and on the other side is Tony and thankfully, albeit surprisingly, so is Pepper. 

Steve stops up short. In the near distance, through the patio doors, he can see a plane on the landing pad, guarded over by a tall woman with dark skin and sharp features, dressed all in red. 

Steve snaps his gaze back to the two in front of him. “Hi Tony. Miss Potts.” 

Tony crosses both arms over his chest, leaning back against his living room sofa in the very picture of recalcitrance, but there’s a frisson of tension to the set of his jaw. “Oh, she gets Miss Potts, huh? How come I never got Mister Stark? Was it something I said?” 

There’s a small twist to his mouth now, like he thinks this is funny. 

Before Steve can answer, Pepper lets out an impatient huff, smacking Tony in the arm lightly. “Tony, don’t start. Put your claws away and play nice. I’m going back to work. Try not to leave too much blood, it’s a bitch to clean out of the carpet.” She leans over to press a kiss to Tony’s cheek before slipping away into one of the back rooms, giving Steve a brief nod as she goes. 

Tony uncrosses his arms, throwing them out in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Alright, we can play nice. We can play neutral. How’s the kid, is she safe?” 

Steve exhales in relief. He can talk about Wanda, yeah. “She’s safe. She’s...in Europe, somewhere, with Maria.” 

“She’s safe in Europe? Gee, that’s vague,” Tony says, but the sarcasm isn’t quite as heavy as it could be. “And with Nick too, am I right? There’s no way I’m buying that one-eyed maniac is actually dead.” 

Steve shrugs. “He knew he couldn’t keep it a secret forever. And...I’m not trying to hide it from you, she’s going from one country to the next, it changes by day.” Steve’s tongue almost sticks to the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat going dry. This is going to shift into precarious territory pretty quickly. “Wanda is....well, she never knew her father but now after everything, she’s decided to go looking for him. Maria’s helping.” 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Jumping right in there with absentee fathers, eh? So much for neutral territory, Capsicle.” 

But his words are almost a relief because it means they’re on the same page at least a little. Neither of them want to have this conversation but both of them know they need to have it. That’s progress, probably. 

Steve decides to bite the bullet. “Look, Tony. I should’ve handled it better. Bucky, the Winter Soldier files, going out of my way not to talk about it with you.” Steve shakes his head, a little ruefully. “I told myself I was protecting you from it, or I was protecting Bucky from you, and...it’s both of those things, sure, but it’s also just ‘cause I didn’t know what the hell else there was to do. I didn’t have the right answer. And I’m sorry for it.” 

Tony digs his hands into his pockets, rocking forward on the balls of his heels. “Is 10:30 in the morning too early for a drink, you think?” He addresses the question mainly towards the ceiling. 

“Tony, I — “ Steve starts, but Tony interrupts him with a minute shake of the head. 

“Listen up, Capsicle, because I’m only gonna say this once: I made some mistakes too. It doesn’t happen often, I know, but the odd one does slip in here or there.” Tony tosses him a grin, and it’s only partly fake, and slips just as quickly into a tight grimace. “And I don’t like what you did but I can’t stand here and tell you that I wouldn’t have done the same, if I was in your position. If it was Pepper. So, there you have it. Are we done? Can we be done with this?” 

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, and then reaches out a hand for Tony to shake. “Thanks, Tony. And if you need anything, any trouble comes your way, just give me a call.” 

Tony grasps his hand, giving it a firm shake like a pantomime of a business deal, before dropping it. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll project the shape of your shield into the sky like Batman. Can it be a rainbow shield? Or are those not the right colors for you?” 

Steve chooses not to dignify that with a response; instead, he starts towards the high glass patio doors that lead to the outside, to the plane, and eventually, to Bucky. “Goodbye, Tony,” he says pointedly, as he goes to swing the glass patio door shut. Through the glass, he hears Tony yell “that’s not a no, Rogers” to get the last word in, of course, so he rolls his eyes.

Well, Steve can worry about that later. For now, he’s got a plane to catch. 

***  
The plane ride back from New York to San Francisco is so much less eventful than the plane ride going the opposite direction two weeks ago, though Scott is just as exhausted. Thankfully, minus the nausea and watchful gaze of Clint Barton, though. Hope sleeps for most of it too, curled up in her seat, leaning on Scott. While she’s asleep, he reads a novel, pretty much just to boast to her that he’s the kind of guy who reads novels now. She’s tried to argue in the past that his monthly engineering journals are just as impressive, if not more so than fiction books, to no avail. He’s Scott Lang, a superhero who reads _novels_. Okay, the novel is the Da Vinci Code, and it kind of sucks, but it’s the principle of the thing, anyways. 

When they land and get a taxi to his place, where she left her car while they were gone because he has a garage, Hope’s quieter than usual. Scott knows her well enough by now to guess that she’s working something out in her head, so he leaves her to her thoughts. 

When Hope smiles weakly at him and doesn’t quite meet his eyes after they’ve parked, he panics for a second, but takes a deep breath and reigns it in. Scott thinks he knows exactly what she’s doing, or that he at least knows mostly what she’s doing; either way, she’s brooding. Scott sure hasn’t forgotten the part of the evening a week ago where he declared his love for her immediately before risking his life in the middle of a gunfight, and he knows she hasn’t forgotten either. 

“Anything you want to talk about?” Scott keeps his voice deceptively nonchalant, because he isn’t going to push her, no matter how much he really wants to know what she thinks about that particular bombshell. 

“No,” she says, flicking her eyes up towards his, hesitant, but if he’s not mistaken, a little bit hopeful. “Well, maybe later. I’m going to go home and get my cat from Mrs. Carlisle first.” 

“Okay,” he agrees, smiling at her and giving her the ghost of a kiss goodbye. She brushes her nose across his, a tiny bit of returned affection, and it’s almost enough to relax his twanging nerves. Scott doesn’t really want her to leave and retrieve the cat, but if that’s what she wants so that she can have some distance to think, he’ll deal with it. He’s so gone for her that he’ll do just about anything she wants. So if she has to have space to figure out that she feels the same way about him, he isn’t going to stop her. 

As she drives off, Scott decides he doesn’t actually want to be alone while waiting, not when the last two weeks have been so intense and she’s been such a big part of it, so he calls Luis to come over for dinner. 

Luis arrives in a blur of “Look at you Scotty Superhero!” and it’s pretty cool — after all, Luis is the reason Scott knew that Sam was considering him for an Avengers gig after the quantum tech burglary in upstate New York. Luis also brings his enthusiastic, inane chatter that got Scott through most of his time in San Quentin. 

Kind enough not to comment on how Scott’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a black inside out Green Day shirt, Luis flops down on the couch and surveys the room. He’s also kind enough not to comment on how dinner is mixing bowls full of sugary cereal, Scott’s favorite comfort food, though of course he demands to have “the good shit, that oat milk” because it’s San Francisco. They eat in relative silence, another sure indicator that things are not entirely copacetic in Scottyland. 

When Scott reaches to grab more Cocoa Puffs after he finishes the first bowl, Luis pulls a face at him and shakes his head. 

“What?” Scott feels his neck and ears go red. For as unassuming and dense as Luis can seem, he’s not, and he knows that Luis is not about to lecture him on caloric intake.

“Look bro, I wasn’t gonna say nothing, but obviously you’re in your feelings, and you can’t lie to me,” he says, pointing at Scott with the serving spoon he’s been using to eat his Fruity Pebbles and oat milk. 

Scott sets his bowl of Cocoa Puffs down with a little bit of remorse because they’ll be too soggy to eat after they finish talking. “I may have told Hope that I loved her right before fainting, and _then_ I disappeared when I went to jail again,” he says, sheepishly. “It’s a lot.” 

“It’s Hope,” Luis says sagely, shrugging. “You just gotta let her get it through that big scary brain of hers, let her realize that you mean it, that you’re not going anywhere. Childhood trauma is really real, you know.” 

“What if she doesn’t… get it through her brain,” Scott asks, and he’s pretty sure that he cringes with his whole body at his own stupidity even as he asks it.

“She’s like, your true partner, man,” Luis answers, like it’s just that easy, “so maybe don’t fuck it up by asking dumbass questions like that? Give her time, it’ll be fine.” 

“Thanks,” Scott says, picking up his spoon again and shaking his head at the soggy cocoa mess, “I needed that.” 

“De nada,” Luis accepts, grandly, feigning a bow over his now pastel-colored bowl of oat milk. 

They get through about half of Moana, which they’re watching because “this movie always makes me feel way better, bro, because it’s uplifting and intersectional” when Scott’s phone rings. It’s Hope, so Luis pauses the movie to give Scott a thumbs up. 

Hope’s voice is exactly what he wants to hear, so Scott tries not to answer too enthusiastically and definitely fails. 

Fortunately, Hope just laughs through the phone. “You want some company?” 

“Yours? I guess,” Scott downplays jokingly, grinning. “Not to be too obvious, or whatever.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, “but I’m already here. At your door, that is.” 

Scott makes himself walk calmly to the door to let her in, even though he wants to jump over the back of the couch and parkour leap into the hallway to get there faster. He opens the door, and Hope stands in front of him in yoga pants and his CalTech sweatshirt, with a cat carrier and a hissing Schrodinger the devil cat inside. She’s smiling, and the smile reaches across her face all the way up to her big green eyes. “Hi,” she says. 

“Hi Scary Lady,” Luis greets Hope brightly, suddenly standing right there with them in the doorway. “Don’t mind me, I was just leaving.”

Luis holds up his car keys and presses the unlock button on the fob as he rushes past Hope. La Cucaracha plays loudly as the doors to the oldest van in the world unlock. Scott shakes his head as if to clear the song from his thoughts because that horn is the absolute worst. Under the street lamp, Luis meets his eyes and mouths “don’t fuck it up” before he gets in the van and drives away. 

“So..,” Scott starts, as she ducks under his arm into the hallway. 

“So,” she says, walking a few steps into the hallway to put down the cat and let him run free, something Scott is sure that they’ll regret later. Hope turns back towards him and meets his eyes. “I have something to say.” 

After a deep breath, she continues steadily, “this past week watching you in jail was really hard and I hated it.” 

She raises her hand to keep him quiet when he opens his mouth to answer, though he has no idea what he would say if she told him she doesn’t want to deal with his shit anymore because of the jail thing. “I really couldn’t stand seeing you like that, in handcuffs. I figured that I _probably_ hated it so much because I love you.” 

Scott knows he’s pressing his luck by pushing her but he can’t resist. He reaches for her hand. “Probably?” 

“Ugh,” Hope is bright red, and she groans impatiently before squaring her shoulders and taking his offered hand. “No, not probably. I definitely love you. I don’t know why,” she says, dragging out the word ‘why’ and teasing him with an impish little grin, “but there it is. I love you.”

He pulls her closer to him and trails his opposite finger along her cheek, tapping her dimple. “Right back at you,” he says, unable to stop his goofy smile.

“No. You have to say it back,” Hope demands. 

“But I said it first,” Scott answers, feeling a little too smug to value his own life at this moment, “so I’m good.” 

She arches an eyebrow and it hits him in the solar plexus how much he loves her and that skeptical eyebrow. 

“I love you, Hope,” he declares, conceding to her demands and looking into her eyes with all of his feelings on his face like they’ve been burned on by a permanent brand. “Better?” 

“It’ll do,” she snarks happily, leaning into him as he leans into her, their teeth clinking together accidentally. It hurts like hell, but they laugh into the kiss anyway. 

***

Wakanda is — overwhelming, mostly, like a world with the saturation turned up, all of the colors brighter and the technology more refined and more ambitious than anything his old pulp novels could have imagined. It’s everything that his eighteen year old self hoped the future would be. 

It helps that they speak a language that HYDRA never knew to force into his head, that he gets to learn this place completely from scratch, the way he always wanted to travel, on the odd days when he would earn a couple of extra bucks and let himself dream a little. Bucky’s gone from med bay to tech lab to farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and every step along the way has looked like nothing he’s ever seen before. 

One of the kimoyo beads on the bracelet that Shuri gave him crackles to life, her voice coming through as clear and strong as it would if she was standing right next to him. “Are you moping by the lake again, white boy?”

Bucky huffs a little, but there’s a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He likes Shuri, for all that the set of her chin and the look in her eyes when she gets going on a tangent reminds him so much of his little sister Becca that it makes his chest ache. He’s known her for all of ten days and already, she seems determined to bully him into at least trying to have fun. 

“Moping? Who’s moping?” Bucky settles down on the wooden bench in front of the farmhouse, leaning back against the heavy painted canvas that makes up most of the structure. He tips his head up towards the sky, taking in the sun. “I’m sitting around, trying to avoid any crazies who might pop up and set off the trigger words that I only just found out are in my head.” 

“Sounds like moping to me.” Shuri’s voice comes through as a sharp staccato, which Bucky’s come to understand is her version of primly telling him to knock it off. “I told you, we’re working on it. Zemo is in custody, the best doctors in Wakanda are drawing up a treatment plan, and the smartest girl in all of Africa is creating the tech to make it all happen.” 

“And that would be you,” Bucky guesses, raising his voice at the end with the lilt of a question, as if he doesn’t know. 

“Of course it’s me,” Shuri says. “Who else would it be? Honestly, you couldn’t be in safer hands.” 

And the hell of it is, he believes her. When her brain scans first picked up on the unusual activity and then Okoye’s interrogation of Zemo confirmed that they were triggers, that they came with a goddamn instruction manual, all Bucky wanted to do was run into the nearest container and put himself on ice again. Anything to keep himself from becoming that person again, that asset, something without control or choice or independent thought. 

He still wants to do that, if he’s honest with himself. Every day is an effort not to run for the hills. But for now, Bucky’s willing to give this shot because for the first fucking time in a century, he wants to try some of that living that he’s been telling Steve all about. 

Shuri lets out a loud, impatient sigh. “I can hear you moping from all the way over here. Fine, I won’t give you any hints about your surprise. You’ll just have to wait for it.” 

“My surprise? What —“ Bucky taps at the kimoyo bead, but Shuri’s already disconnected their call. “Goddamnit,” he says to the thin air in front of him, but otherwise doesn’t move. As far as surprises from Shuri go, it’s not gonna do him any harm. Either it’s another fucking goat to take care of or….or it’s Steve, finally. 

Bucky nervously runs one hand through his shoulder length hair, letting out a tremulous breath. It’s stupid, to feel nervous over seeing the person he knows best in the world. Especially after...well, after everything that they’ve been through, war and death and sheer back-biting hell, and now he’s here, in a country he didn’t even know existed growing up, and they have a real shot. A shot that they never could’ve had back in Brooklyn, not without everything he’s been through. 

It’s a fine fucking cocktail of guilt and want and desperation and at the core of all of it, love. Somehow, impossibly, he’s still in love with Steve; for him, Steve is still the only thing in a crazy mixed up world that makes any sense, that he can still see so clearly. 

Bucky lets out a groan, dragging his hand down his face. Shuri’s right; he is moping. 

But thankfully, he doesn’t have to mope for much longer. A good ten minutes pass and then there’s a low humming that increases in volume until a hovercraft comes into view, carrying just one passenger: Steve. 

When Steve gets within earshot, Bucky lets out a sharp whistle. “Well, look at you, Rogers, flying that fancy future bike all by yourself.” 

Steve brakes hard, coming to a sharp stop just in front of the fenced-in pasture that currently holds two too-many goats for Bucky’s liking. Steve jerks his head towards the pasture. “These your new friends, Buck?” 

“You’re hilarious,” Bucky says dryly. 

Steve hops off the hovercraft, landing with a solid thud. He’s wearing blue jeans and a worn-looking brown leather coat and he’s so fucking handsome that Bucky can hardly stand it. 

Steve’s grinning wide and stupid, like the earnest dumbass that he’s always been, but Bucky knows he can’t make fun of him for it, not when he’s sure that he looks like just as much of an idiot. 

Bucky stands up from the bench at the exact moment that Steve strides forward to meet him, and they crash into each other. Steve’s arms come up to wrap Bucky in the tightest hug he can remember ever having, and Bucky presses his face into the crook of Steve’s neck. In 1938, they would’ve played this the other way around, and Steve would’ve been up on his tippy-toes to do it. Bucky chuckles wetly into the soft, warm skin of Steve’s neck when he tries to picture them doing that now. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Steve cautions, “and I don’t wanna hear it. I wasn’t _that_ small.” 

Bucky pulls back, raising both hands, one metal and one flesh, to frame Steve’s face. “Sweetheart. Don’t bullshit me. You absolutely were.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, so Bucky knows he doesn’t mind it so much. “Is there nowhere I can go and not get shit?” 

Bucky makes a face as if he’s thinking it over, and then shrugs. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he says, brushing his nose against Steve’s. “So you came all this way, soldier, what do you wanna do next?” 

Steve closes his eyes, his long lashes sweeping downwards, and takes in a deep breath, as if to center himself. Bucky swipes one thumb across Steve’s cheek, pressing a small kiss to the underside of Steve’s jaw. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Steve says, in that low, self-deprecating way of his. “I thought maybe I’d kiss my fella some, and then maybe check out the place he’s staying in, unpack my bags and stay there awhile too. Get some rest, for once. That all sound okay to you?” 

There’s a lot that Bucky could say to that. There’s a tiny voice in his head that’s still telling him to turn and run, to keep Steve and every good person in Wakanda safe from the things that he’s capable of, but Bucky shakes his head, like the motion itself could clear that little voice out. Today, he’s sticking to his guns, little voice be damned. 

“Yeah, pal, that sounds pretty damn good to me,” Bucky says, and then he decides that he can’t take the wait any longer, pulling Steve down into a proper kiss, one that’s world’s away from the small brush that they shared back in the hangar, and how could he have forgotten this, the way Steve kisses like he does everything else, by throwing his whole self into it. Bucky huffs a laugh into Steve’s mouth as he stumbles backwards a step. “Eager, huh, Rogers?” Bucky murmurs, as he rights himself, pressing back up into another kiss. 

“You like it,” Steve counters, pulling back an inch. “Hey pal,” he says, like he’s just now seeing Bucky again for the first time. “It’s good to see you.” 

Ridiculous, the pair of them. If only Wilson could see them now. They’d never hear the end of it. 

Bucky doesn’t have a shred of shame left in him, though, so he doesn’t give a shit. Instead, he just leans back on the balls of his feet, grabbing hold of Steve’s right hand and lacing their fingers together. “C’mon, pal. I’ll give you the grand tour.” 

~ FIN ~

**ONE YEAR AND SEVEN MONTHS LATER**

Natasha paces the same tread into the old wooden floors of her favorite Athens safe house. She checks and re-checks the gun that she’s holding, the gun at her hip, and the knife strapped to her boot. 

Sharon was supposed to meet her here three days ago. They were going to spend a day eating olives and drinking wine and making out on the patio, and then they were going to set out on a mission that Sharon definitely isn’t allowed to be on as an agent of the CIA, but it was a small favor for Maria, so of course they were gonna go. 

Nat doesn’t worry, at first; Sharon can take care of herself and also, she’s almost always a little late to their rendezvous and anyways, this is new, this thing between them. Sharon doesn’t tell her everything; Natasha would never expect her to. 

The only thing that Natasha knows about Sharon’s latest CIA mission is that it involved a spectacularly stupid and underfunded HYDRA off-shoot that was proving surprisingly hard to stomp out. That’s still child's play, compared to everything else. 

So, fine. Natasha can give her a grace period of about twenty-four hours. 

And then those twenty-four hours are up and the clock keeps ticking and here she is, pacing, when one of her burner phones dings with a message and Nat is halfway across the floor before she realizes it. She flips open the old creaky Motorola, taking in the message that just came in from a contact that’s just marked ‘S.’ 

_SOS, H trying to become the next Bug Man_

“Fuck,” Natasha says, loud enough to startle a pigeon that had taken up residence on her patio. “Fuck.” 

She thinks about her tiny friend in a brand new flying insect suit, and then plucks her own cell-phone from her back pocket, swiping it open and frantically scrolling until she reaches the contact marked ‘Hope Van Dyne.’ She presses the call button. 

“Hi, Wasp? It’s Black Widow. I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’ve come to an end just in time to give you something to read during social distancing/isolation/quarantine. We hope you liked reading this as much as we liked writing it! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! 
> 
> Also, fingerguns, always gotta have ladies kissing ladies. 
> 
> And as always, the MCU movie entitled Captain America: Civil War? We still don’t know her.


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